KNOWN- 
BT 


g>ara&  ©rne  Jetoett 


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HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN   COMPANY 

BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 


STRANGERS  AND  WAYFARERS 


BY 


SARAH    ORNE   JEWETT 


BOSTON    AND    NEW    YORK 
HOUGHTON    MIFFLIN   COMPANY 
Iftitiertfibe  $re#j  Cambri&jje 


Copyright,  1890, 
BY  SARAH  ORNE  JEWETT. 

All  rights  reserved. 


57 


TO 

s.  w. 

PAINTER   OF  NEW  ENGLAND  MEN  AND  WOMEN 
NEW  ENGLAND  FIELDS  AND  SHORES 


M697678 


CONTENTS. 


A  WINTER  COURTSHIP 1— 

THE  MISTRESS  OF  SYDENHAM  PLANTATION    ...    18  -^ 

THE  TOWN  POOR 36 

THE  QUEST  OF  MR.  TEABY 60 

THE  LUCK  OF  THE  BOGANS 79  - 

FAIR  DAY 116  <•* 

GOING  TO  SHREWSBURY 138 

THE  TAKING  OF  CAPTAIN  BALL 157^ 

BY  THE  MORNING  BOAT 197  " 

IN  DARK  NEW  ENGLAND  DAYS 220 

THE  WHITE  ROSE  ROAD 257  - 


STRANGERS  AND  WAYFARERS. 


A  WINTER  COURTSHIP. 

THE  passenger  and  mail  transportation 
between  the  towns  of  North  Kilby  and  San 
scrit  Pond  was  carried  on  by  Mr.  Jefferson 
Briley,  whose  two-seated  covered  wagon  was 
usually  much  too  large  for  the  demands  of 
business.  Both  the  Sanscrit  Pond  and 
North  Kilby  people  were  stayers-at-home, 
and  Mr.  Briley  often  made  his  seven-mile 
journey  in  entire  solitude,  except  for  the 
limp  leather  mail-bag,  which  he  held  firmly 
to  the  floor  of  the  carriage  with  his  heavily 
shod  left  foot.  The  mail-bag  had  almost  a 
personality  to  him,  born  of  long  association. 
Mr.  Briley  was  a  meek  and  timid-looking 
body,  but  he  held  a  warlike  soul,  and  en 
couraged  his  fancies  by  reading  awful  tales 
of  bloodshed  and  lawlessness  in  the  far 
West.  Mindful  of  stage  robberies  and  train 


2  A    WINTER   COURTSHII. 

thieves,  and  of  express  messengers  who  died 
at  their  posts,  he  was  prepared  for  anything ; 
and  although  he  had  trusted  to  his  own 
strength  and  bravery  these  many  years,  he 
carried  a  heavy  pistol  under  his  front-seat 
cushion  for  better  defense.  This  awful 
weapon  was  familiar  to  all  his  regular  pas-= 
sengers,  and  was  usually  shown  to  strangers 
by  the  time  two  of  the  seven  miles  of  Mr. 
Briley's  route  had  been  passed.  The  pistol 
was  not  loaded.  Nobody  (at  least  not  Mr. 
Briley  himself)  doubted  that  the  mere  sight 
of  such  a  weapon  would  turn  the  boldest  ad 
venturer  aside. 

Protected  by  such  a  man  and  such  a  piece 
of  armament,  one  gray  Friday  morning  in 
the  edge  of  winter,  Mrs.  Fanny  Tobin  was 
traveling  from  Sanscrit  Pond  to  North 
Kilby.  She  was  an  elderly  and  feeble-look 
ing  woman,  but  with  a  shrewd  twinkle  in 
her  eyes,  and  she  felt  very  anxious  about  her 
numerous  pieces  of  baggage  and  her  own 
personal  safety.  She  was  enveloped  in 
many  shawls  and  smaller  wrappings,  but 
they  were  not  securely  fastened,  and  kept 
getting  undone  and  flying  loose,  so  that  the 
bitter  December  cold  seemed  to  be  picking 
a  lock  now  and  then,  and  creeping  in  to  steal 


A    WINTER   COURTSHIP.  3 

away  the  little  warmth  she  had.  Mr.  Briley 
was  cold,  too,  and  could  only  cheer  himself 
by  remembering  the  valor  of  those  pony- 
express  drivers  of  the  pre-railroad  days,  who 
had  to  cross  the  Rocky  Mountains  on  the 
great  California  route.  He  spoke  at  length 
of  their  perils  to  the  suffering  passenger, 
who  felt  none  the  warmer,  and  at  last  gave 
a  groan  of  weariness. 

"  How  fur  did  you  say  't  was  now  ?  " 

"  I  do'  know 's  I  said,  Mis'  Tobin,"  an 
swered  the  driver,  with  a  frosty  laugh. 
"You  see  them  big  pines,  and  the  side  of 
a  barn  just  this  way,  with  them  yellow  circus 
bills  ?  That 's  my  three-mile  mark." 

"Be  we  got  four  more  to  make?  Oh, 
my  laws!"  mourned  Mrs.  Tobin.  "Urge 
the  beast,  can't  ye,  Jeff'son  ?  I  ain't  used 
to  bein'-  out  in  such  bleak  weather.  Seems 
if  I  could  n't  git  my  breath.  I  'm  all 
pinched  up  and  wigglin'  with  shivers  now. 
'T  ain't  no  use  lettin'  the  hoss  go  step-a-ty- 
step,  this  fashion." 

"  Landy  me !  "  exclaimed  the  affronted 
driver.  "  I  don't  see  why  folks  expects  me 
to  race  with  the  cars.  Everybody  that  gits 
in  wants  me  to  run  the  hoss  to  death  on  the 
road.  I  make  a  good  everage  o'  time,  and 


4  A    WINTER  COURTSHIP. 

that 's  all  I  can  do.  Ef  you  was  to  go  back 
an'  forth  every  day  but  Sabbath  fur  eigh 
teen  years,  you  'd  want  to  ease  it  all  you 
could,  and  let  those  thrash  the  spokes  out  o' 
their  wheels  that  wanted  to.  North  Kilby, 
Mondays,  Wednesdays,  and  Fridays  ;  San 
scrit  Pond,  Tuesdays,  Thu'sdays,  an'  Satur 
days.  Me  an'  the  beast 's  done  it  eighteen 
years  together,  and  the  creatur'  warn't,  so  to 
say,  young  when  we  begun  it,  nor  I  neither. 
I  re'lly  did  n't  know 's  she  'd  hold  out  till 
this  time.  There,  git  up,  will  ye,  old  mar' !  " 
as  the  beast  of  burden  stopped  short  in  the 
road. 

There  was  a  story  that  Jefferson  gave  this 
faithful  creature  a  rest  three  times  a  mile, 
and  took  four  hours  for  the  journey  by  him 
self,  and  longer  whenever  he  had  a  passen 
ger.  But  in  pleasant  weather  the  road  was 
delightful,  and  f idl  of  people  who  drove  their 
own  conveyances,  and  liked  to  stop  and  talk. 
There  were  not  many  farms,  and  the  third 
growth  of  white  pines  made  a  pleasant  shade, 
though  Jefferson  liked  to  say  that  when  he 
began  to  carry  the  mail  his  way  lay  through 
an  open  country  of  stumps  and  sparse  under 
brush,  where  the  white  pines  nowadays  com 
pletely  arched  the  road. 


A    WINTER  COURTSHIP.  5 

They  had  passed  the  barn  with  circus 
posters,  and  felt  colder  than  ever  when  they 
caught  sight  of  the  weather-beaten  acrobats 
in  their  tights. 

"  My  gorry  !  "  exclaimed  Widow  Tobin, 
"them  pore  creatur's  looks  as  cheerless  as 
little  birch-trees  in  snow-time.  I  hope  they 
dresses  'em  warmer  this  time  o'  year.  Now, 
there !  look  at  that  one  jumpin'  through  the 
little  hoop,  will  ye  ?  " 

"  He  could  n't  git  himself  through  there 
with  two  pair  o'  pants  on,"  answered  Mr. 
Briley.  "  I  expect  they  must  have  to  keep 
limber  as  eels.  I  used  to  think,  when  I  was 
a  boy,  that  't  was  the  only  thing  I  could  ever 
be  reconciled  to  do  for  a  livin'.  I  set  out  to 
run  away  an'  follow  a  rovin'  showman  once, 
but  mother  needed  me  to  home.  There 
warn't  nobody  but  me  an'  the  little  gals." 

"  You  ain't  the  only  one  that 's  be'n  dis- 
app'inted  o'  their  heart's  desire,"  said  Mrs. 
Tobin  sadly.  "  'T  warn't  so  that  I  could  be 
spared  from  home  to  learn  the  dressmaker's 
trade." 

"  'T  would  a  come  handy  later  on,  I  de 
clare,"  answered  the  sympathetic  driver, 
*'  bein'  's  you  went  an'  had  such  a  passel  o' 
gals  to  clothe  an'  feed.  There,  them  that 's 


6  A    WINTER   COURTSHIP. 

livin'  is  all  well  off  now,  but  it  must  ha' 
been  some  inconvenient  for  ye  when  they 
was  small." 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Briley,  but  then  I  've  had  my 
mercies,  too,"  said  the  widow  somewhat 
grudgingly.  "  I  take  it  master  hard  now, 
though,"  havin'  to  give  up  my  own  home  and 
live  round  from  place  to  place,  if  they  be 
my  own  child'en.  There  was  Ad'line  and 
Susan  Ellen  fussin'  an'  bickerin'  yesterday 
about  who  'd  got  to  have  me  next ;  and,  Lord 
be  thanked,  they  both  wanted  me  right  off 
but  I  hated  to  hear  'em  talkin'  of  it  over. 
I  'd  rather  live  to  home,  and  do  for  myself." 

"  I  've  got  consider'ble  used  to  boardin'," 
said  Jefferson,  "  sence  ma'am  died,  but  it 
made  me  ache  'long  at  the  fust  on  't,  I  tell 
ye.  Bein'  on  the  road  's  I  be,  I  could  n't  do 
no  ways  at  keepin'  house.  I  should  want  to 
keep  right  there  and  see  to  things." 

"  Course  you  would,"  replied  Mrs.  Tobin, 
with  a  sudden  inspiration  of  opportunity 
which  sent  a  welcome  glow  all  over  her. 
"  Course  you  would,  Jeff 'son,"  —  she  leaned 
toward  the  front  seat ;  4^that  is  to  say,  on- 
less  you  had  jest  the  right  one  to  do  it  for 

ye." 

And  Jefferson  felt  a  strange  glow  also, 


A    WINTER   COURTSHIP.  1 

and  a  sense  of  unexpected  interest  and 
enjoyment. 

"  See  here,  Sister  Tobin,"  he  exclaimed 
with  enthusiasm.  "  Why  can't  ye  take  the 
trouble  to  shift  seats,  and  come  front  here 
long  o'  me  ?  We  could  put  one  buff'lo  top 
o'  the  other,  —  they  're  both  wearin'  thin,  — 
and  set  close,  and  I  do'  know  but  we  sh'd  be 
more  protected  ag'inst  the  weather." 

"  Well,  I  could  n't  be  no  colder  if  I  was 
froze  to  death,"  answered  the  widow,  with  an 
amiable  simper.  "  Don't  ye  let  me  delay  you, 
nor  put  you  out,  Mr.  Briley.  I  don't  know 's 
I  'd  set  forth  to-day  if  I  'd  known  't  was  so 
cold  ;  but  I  had  all  my  bundles  done  up, 
and  I  ain't  one  that  puts  my  hand  to  the 
plough  an'  looks  back,  'cordin'  to  Scriptur'." 

"  You  would  n't  wanted  me  to  ride  all 
them  seven  miles  alone  ?  "  asked  the  gallant 
Briley  sentimentally,  as  he  lifted  her  down, 
and  helped  her  up  again  to  the  front  seat. 
She  was  a  few  years  older  than  he,  but  they 
had  been  schoolmates,  and  Mrs.  Tobin's 
youthful  freshness  was  suddenly  revived  to 
his  mind's  eye.  She  had  a  little  farm  ;  there 
was  nobody  left  at  home  now  but  herself, 
and  so  she  had  broken  up  housekeeping  for 
the  winter.  Jefferson  himself  had  savings 
of  no  mean  amount. 


8  A    WINTER  COURTSHIP. 

They  tucked  themselves  in,  and  felt  better 
for  the  change,  but  there  was  a  sudden  awk 
wardness  between  them ;  they  had  not  had 
time  to  prepare  for  an  unexpected  crisis. 

"They  say  Elder  Bickers,  over  to  East 
Sanscrit,  's  been  and  got  married  again  to  a 
gal  that 's  four  year  younger  than  his  oldest 
daughter,"  proclaimed  Mrs.  Tobin  presently. 
"  Seems  to  me  't  was  fool's  business." 

"  I  view  it  so,"  said  the  stage  -  driver. 
"  There  's  goin'  to  be  a  mild  open  winter  for 
that  fam'ly." 

"  What  a  joker  you  be  for  a  man  that 's 
had  so  much  responsibility ! "  smiled  Mrs.  To 
bin,  after  they  had  done  laughing.  "  Ain't 
you  never  'fraid,  carryin'  mail  matter  and 
such  valuable  stuff,  that  you  '11  be  set  on  an' 
robbed,  'specially  by  night  ?  " 

Jefferson  braced  his  feet  against  the 
dasher  under  the  worn  buffalo  skin.  "  It  is 
kind  o'  scary,  or  would  be  for  some  folks, 
but  I  'd  like  to  see  anybody  get  the  better 
o'  me.  I  go  armed,  and  I  don't  care  who 
knows  it.  Some  o'  them  drover  men  that 
comes  from  Canady  looks  as  if  they  did  n't 
care  what  they  did,  but  I  look  'em  right  in 
the  eye  every  time." 

"Men  folks  is  brave  by  natur',"  said  the 


A    WINTER  COURTSHIP.  9 

widow  admiringly.  "  You  know  how  Tobin 
would  let  his  fist  right  out  at  anybody  that 
ondertook  to  sass  him.  Town-meetin'  days, 
if  he  got  disappointed  about  the  way  things 
went,  he  'd  lay  'em  out  in  win'rows ;  and  ef 
he  had  n't  been  a  church-member  he  'd  been 
a  real  fightin'  character.  I  was  always  'f raid 
to  have  him  roused,  for  all  he  was  so  willin' 
and  meechin'  to  home,  and  set  round  clever 
as  anybody.  My  Susan  Ellen  used  to  boss 
him  same's  the  kitten,  when  she  was  four 
year  old." 

"  I  've  got  a  kind  of  a  sideways  cant  to 
my  nose,  that  Tobin  give  me  when  we  was 
to  school.  I  don't  know  's  you  ever  noticed 
it,"  said  Mr.  Briley.  "  We  was  scufflin',  as 
lads  will.  I  never  bore  him  no  kind  of  a 
grudge.  I  pitied  ye,  when  he  was  taken 
away.  I  re'lly  did,  now,  Fanny.  I  liked 
Tobin  first-rate,  and  I  liked  you.  I  used  to 
say  you  was  the  han'somest  girl  to  school." 

"  Lemme  see  your  nose.  'T  is  all  straight, 
for  what  I  know,"  said  the  widow  gently, 
as  with  a  trace  of  coyness  she  gave  a  hasty 
glance.  "  I  don't  know  but  what  't  is 
warped  a  little,  but  nothin'  to  speak  of. 
You  've  got  real  nice  features,  like  your 
marm's  folks." 


10  A    WINTER   COURTSHIP. 

It  was  becoming  a  sentimental  occasion, 
and  Jefferson  Briley  felt  that  he  was  in  for 
something  more  than  he  had  bargained. 
He  hurried  the  faltering  sorrel  horse,  and 
began  to  talk  of  the  weather.  It  certainly 
did  look  like  snow,  and  he  was  tired  of 
bumping  over  the  frozen  road. 

"  I  should  n't  wonder  if  I  hired  a  hand 
here  another  year,  and  went  off  out  West 
myself  to  see  the  country." 

"  Why,  how  you  talk ! "  answered  the 
widow. 

"Yes  'm,"  pursued  Jefferson.  " 'T  is 
tamer  here  than  I  like,  and  I  was  tellin'  'em 
yesterday  I  Ve  got  to  know  this  road  most 
too  well.  I  'd  like  to  go  out  an'  ride  in  the 
mountains  with  some  o'  them  great  clipper 
coaches,  where  the  driver  don't  know  one 
minute  but  he  '11  be  shot  dead  the  next. 
They  carry  an  awful  sight  o'  gold  down 
from  the  mines,  I  expect." 

"  I  should  be  scairt  to  death,"  said  Mrs. 
Tobin.  "  What  creatur's  men  folks  be  to 
like  such  things  !  Well,  I  do  declare." 

"  Yes,"  explained  the  mild  little  man. 
"  There  's  sights  of  desp'radoes  makes  a 
han'some  livin'  out  o'  followin'  them  coaches, 
an'  stoppin'  an'  robbin'  'em  clean  to  the 


A    WINTER  COURTSHIP.  H 

bone.  Your  money  or  your  life !  "  and  he 
flourished  his  stub  of  a  whip  over  the  sorrel 
mare. 

"  Landy  me !  you  make  me  run  all  of  a 
cold  creep.  Do  tell  somethin'  heartenin', 
this  cold  day.  I  shall  dream  bad  dreams 
all  night." 

"They  put  on  black  crape  over  their 
heads,"  said  the  driver  mysteriously.  "  No 
body  knows  who  most  on  'em  be,  and  like 
as  not  some  o'  them  fellows  come  o'  good 
families.  They  've  got  so  they  stop  the  cars, 
and  go  right  through  'em  bold  as  brass.  I 
could  make  your  hair  stand  on  end,  Mis' 
Tobin,  —  I  could  so/" 

"  I  hope  none  on  'em  '11  git  round  our 
way,  I  'm  sure,"  said  Fanny  Tobin.  "  I 
don't  want  to  see  none  on  'em  in  their  crape 
bunnits  comin'  after  me." 

"  I  ain't  goin'  to  let  nobody  touch  a  hair 
o'  your  head,"  and  Mr.  Briley  moved  a  little 
nearer,  and  tucked  in  the  buffaloes  again. 

"  I  feel  considerable  warm  to  what  I  did," 
observed  the  widow  by  way  of  reward. 

"There,  I  used  to  have  my  fears,"  Mr. 
Briley  resumed,  with  an  inward  feeling  that 
he  never  would  get  to  North  Kilby  depot  a 
single  man.  "  But  you  see  I  had  n't  nobody 


12  A    WINTER   COURTSHIP. 

but  myself  to  think  of.  I  Ve  got  cousins, 
as  you  know,  but  nothin'  nearer,  and  what 
I  Ve  laid  up  would  soon  be  parted  out ;  and 
—  well,  I  suppose  some  folks  would  think  o' 
me  if  anything  was  to  happen." 

Iri.  Tobin  was  holding  her  cloud  over 
he~  face,  —  the  wind  was  sharp  on  that  bit 
of  open  road,  —  but  she  gave  an  encouraging 
sound,  between  a  groan  and  a  chirp. 

"  'T  would  n't  be  like  nothin'  to  me  not 
to  see  you  drivin'  by,"  she  said,  after  a 
minute.  "  I  should  n't  know  the  days  o* 
the  week.  I  says  to  Susan  Ellen  last  week 
I  was  sure  't  was  Friday,  and  she  said  no, 
't  was  Thursday ;  but  next  minute  you  druv 
by  and  headin'  toward  North  Kilby,  so  we 
found  I  was  right." 

"  I  Ve  got  to  be  a  featur'  of  the  land 
scape,"  said  Mr.  Briley  plaintively.  "  This 
kind  o'  weather  the  old  mare  and  me,  we 
wish  we  was  done  with  it,  and  could  settle 
down  kind  o'  comfortable.  I  Ve  been  lookin' 
this  good  while,  as  I  drove  the  road,  and 
I  Ve  picked  me  out  a  piece  o'  land  two  or 
three  times.  But  I  can't  abide  the  thought 
o'  buildin',  —  't  would  plague  me  to  death  ; 
and  both  Sister  Peak  to  North  Kilby  and 
Mis'  Deacon  Ash  to  the  Pond,  they  vie  with 


A    WINTER  COURTSHIP,  13 

one  another  to  do  well  by  me,  fear  I  '11  like 
the  other  stoppin'-place  best." 

"  /  should  n't  covet  livin'  long  o'  neither 
one  o'  them  women,"  responded  the  passen 
ger  with  some  spirit.  "  I  see  some  o'  Mis' 
Peak's  cookin'  to  a  farmers'  supper  once, 
when  I  was  visitin'  Susan  Ellen's  folks,  an' 
I  says  4  Deliver  me  from  sech  pale  -  com 
plected  baked  beans  as  them  ! '  and  she  give 
a  kind  of  a  quack.  She  was  settin'  jest  at 
my  left  hand,  and  could  n't  help  hearin'  of 
me.  I  would  n't  have  spoken  if  I  had  known, 
but  she  need  n't  have  let  on  they  was  hers 
an'  make  everything  unpleasant.  '  I  guess 
them  beans  taste  just  as  well  as  other  folks',' 
says  she,  and  she  would  n't  never  speak  to 
me  afterward." 

"  Do'  know 's  I  blame  her,"  ventured  Mr. 
Briley.  "  Women  folks  is  dreadful  pudjicky 
about  their  cookin'.  I  've  always  heard  you 
was  one  o'  the  best  o'  cooks,  Mis'  Tobin. 
I  know  them  doughnuts  an'  things  you  've 
give  me  in  times  past,  when  I  was  drivin' 
by.  Wish  I  had  some  on  'em  now.  I  never 
let  on,  but  Mis'  Ash's  cookin'  's  the  best  by 
a  long  chalk.  Mis'  Peak's  handy  about 
some  things,  and  looks  after  mendin'  of  me 
up." 


14  A    WINTER    COURTSHIP. 

"  It  doos  seem  as  if  a  man  o'  your  years 
and  your  quiet  make  ought  to  have  a  home 
you  could  call  your  own,"  suggested  the  pas 
senger.  "  I  kind  of  hate  to  think  o'  your 
bangein'  here  and  boardin'  there,  and  one 
old  woman  mendin',  and  the  other  settin'  ye 
down  to  meals  that  like  's  not  don't  agree 
with  ye." 

"  Lor',  now,  Mis'  Tobin,  le  's  not  fuss 
round  no  longer,"  said  Mr.  Briley  impa 
tiently.  "  You  know  you  covet  me  same  's 
I  do  you." 

"I  don't  nuther.  Don't  you  go  an'  say 
fo'lish  things  you  can't  stand  to." 

"  I  Ve  been  tryin'  to  git  a  chance  to  put 
in  a  word  with  you  ever  sence  —  Well,  I 
expected  you  'd  want  to  get  your  feelin's 
kind  o'  calloused  after  losin'  Tobin." 

"  There  's  nobody  can  fill  his  place,"  said 
the  widow. 

"  I  do'  know  but  I  can  fight  for  ye  town- 
meetin'  days,  on  a  pinch,"  urged  Jefferson 
boldly. 

"  I  never  see  the  beat  o'  you  men  fur 
conceit,"  and  Mrs.  Tobin  laughed.  "  I  ain't 
goin'  to  bother  with  ye,  gone  half  the  time 
as  you  be,  an'  carryin'  on  with  your  Mis' 
Peaks  and  Mis'  Ashes.  I  dare  say  you  've 


A    WINTER   COURTSHIP.  15 

promised  yourself  to  both  on  'em  twenty 
times." 

"  I  hope  to  gracious  if  I  ever  breathed  a 
word  to  none  on  'em  !  "  protested  the  lover. 
"  'T  ain't  for  lack  o'  opportunities  set  afore 
me,  nuther ;  "  and  then  Mr.  Briley  craftily 
kept  silence,  as  if  he  had  made  a  fair  pro 
posal,  and  expected  a  definite  reply. 

The  lady  of  his  choice  was,  as  she  might 
have  expressed  it,  much  beat  about.  As  she 
soberly  thought,  she  was  getting  along  in 
years,  and  must  put  up  with  Jefferson  all 
the  rest  of  the  time.  It  was  not  likely  she 
would  ever  have  the  chance  of  choosing 
again,  though  she  was  one  who  liked  variety. 

Jefferson  was  n't  much  to  look  at,  but 
he  was  pleasant  and  appeared  boyish  and 
young-feeling.  "  I  do'  know  's  I  should  do 
better,"  she  said  unconsciously  and  half 
aloud.  "  Well,  yes,  Jefferson,  seein'  it 's  you. 
But  we  're  both  on  us  kind  of  old  to  change 
our  situation."  Fanny  Tobin  gave  a  gentle 
sigh. 

"  Hooray !  "  said  Jefferson.  "  I  was  scairt 
you  meant  to  keep  me  sufferin'  here  a  half 
an  hour.  I  declare,  I  'm  more  pleased  than 
I  calc'lated  on.  An'  I  expected  till  lately 
to  die  a  single  man  !  " 


16  A    WINTER   COURTSHIP. 

"  'T  would  re'lly  have  been  a  shame  ; 
't  ain't  natur',"  said  Mrs.  Tobin,  with  con 
fidence.  "  I  don't  see  how  you  held  out  so 
long  with  bein'  solitary." 

"  I  '11  hire  a  hand  to  drive  for  me,  and 
we  '11  have  a  good  comfortable  winter,  me 
an'  you  an'  the  old  sorrel.  I  've  been  proni- 
isin'  of  her  a  rest  this  good  while." 

"  Better  keep  her  a  steppin',"  urged 
thrifty  Mrs.  Fanny.  "She'll  stiffen  up 
master,  an'  disapp'int  ye,  come  spring." 

"  You  '11  have  me,  now,  won't  ye,  sartin  ?  " 
pleaded  Jefferson,  to  make  sure.  "You 
ain't  one  o'  them  that  plays  with  a  man's 
feelin's.  Say  right  out  you  '11  have  me." 

"  I  s'pose  I  shall  have  to,"  said  Mrs. 
Tobin  somewhat  mournfully.  "  I  feel  for 
Mis'  Peak  an'  Mis'  Ash,  pore  creatur's.  I 
expect  they  '11  be  hardshipped.  They  've 
always  been  hard-worked,  an'  may  have  kind 
o'  looked  forward  to  a  little  ease.  But  one 
on  'em  would  be  left  lamentin',  anyhow," 
and  she  gave  a  girlish  laugh.  An  air  of 
victory  animated  the  frame  of  Mrs.  Tobin. 
She  felt  but  twenty-five  years  of  age.  In 
that  moment  she  made  plans  for  cutting  her 
^Briley's  hair,  and  making  him  look  smart- 
ened-up  and  ambitious.  Then  she  wished 


A    WINTER   COURTSHIP.  IT 

that  she  knew  for  certain  how  much  money 
he  had  in  the  bank ;  not  that  it  would  make 
any  difference  now.  "  He  need  n't  bluster 
none  before  me,"  she  thought  gayly.  "  He  's 
harmless  as  a  fly." 

"  Who  'd  have  thought  we  'd  done  such  a 
piece  of  engineerin',  when  we  started  out  ?  " 
inquired  the  dear  one  of  Mr.  Briley's  heart, 
as  he  tenderly  helped  her.  to  alight  at  Susan 
Ellen's  door. 

"Both  on  us,  jest  the  least  grain,"  an 
swered  the  lover.  "  Gimme  a  good  smack, 
now,  you  clever  creatur'  ; "  and  so  they 
parted.  Mr.  Briley  had  been  taken  on  the 
road  in  spite  of-  his  pistol. 


THE  MISTRESS   OF   SYDENHAM 
PLANTATION. 

A  HIGH  wind  was  blowing  from  the  water 
into  the  Beaufort  streets,  —  a  wind  with  as 
much  reckless  hilarity  as  March  could  give 
to  her  breezes,  but  soft  and  spring-like,  al 
most  early-summer-like,  in  its  warmth. 

In  the  gardens  of  the  old  Southern  houses 
that  stood  along  the  bay,  roses  and  petispo- 
rum-trees  were  blooming,  with  their  deli 
cious  fragrance.  It  was  the  time  of  wistarias 
and  wild  white  lilies,  of  the  last  yellow  jas 
mines  and  the  first  Cherokee  roses.  It  was 
the  Saturday  before  Easter  Sunday. 

In  the  quaint  churchyard  of  old  St. 
Helena's  Church,  a  little  way  from  the  bay, 
young  figures  were  busy  among  the  graves 
with  industrious  gardening.  At  first  sight, 
one  might  have  thought  that  this  pretty 
service  was  rendered  only  from  loving  sen 
timents  of  loyalty  to  one's  ancestors,  for 
under  the  great  live-oaks,  the  sturdy  brick 
walls  about  the  family  bury  ing-places  and 


MISTRESS  OF  SYDENHAM  PLANTATION.       19 

the  gravestones  themselves  were  moss-grown 
and  ancient-looking  ;  yet  here  and  there  the 
wounded  look  of  the  earth  appealed  to  the 
eye,  and  betrayed  a  new-made  grave.  The 
old  sarcophagi  and  heavy  tablets  of  the  his 
toric  Beaufort  families  stood  side  by  side 
with  plain  wooden  crosses.  The  armorial 
bearings  and  long  epitaphs  of  the  one  and 
the  brief  lettering  of  the  other  suggested  the 
changes  that  had  come  with  the  war  to  these 
families,  yet  somehow  the  wooden  cross 
touched  one's  heart  with  closer  sympathy. 
The  padlocked  gates  to  the  small  inclosures 
stood  open,  while  gentle  girls  passed  in  and 
out  with  their  Easter  flowers  of  remem 
brance.  On  the  high  churchyard  wall  and 
great  gate-posts  perched  many  a  mocking 
bird,  and  the  golden  light  changed  the  twi 
light  under  the  live-oaks  to  a  misty  warmth 
of  color.  The  birds  began  to  sing  louder ; 
the  gray  moss  that  hung  from  the  heavy 
boughs  swayed  less  and  less,  and  gave  the 
place  a  look  of  pensive  silence. 

In  the  church  itself,  most  of  the  palms 
and  rose  branches  were  already  in  place  for 
the  next  day's  feast,  and  the  old  organ  fol 
lowed  a  fresh  young  voice  that  was  being 
trained  for  the  Easter  anthem.  The  five 


20   MISTRESS  OF  SYDENHAM  PLANTATION. 

doors  of  the  church  were  standing  open. 
On  the  steps  of  that  eastern  door  which 
opened  midway  up  the  side  aisle,  where  the 
morning  sun  had  shone  in  upon  the  white 
faces  of  a  hospital  in  war-time,  —  in  this 
eastern  doorway  sat  two  young  women. 

"  I  was  just  thinking,"  one  was  saying  to 
the  other,  "  that  for  the  first  time  Mistress 
Sydenham  has  forgotten  to  keep  this  day. 
You  know  that  when  she  has  forgotten 
everything  and  everybody  else,  she  has 
known  when  Easter  came,  and  has  brought 
flowers  to  her  graves." 

"  Has  she  been  more  feeble  lately,  do  you 
think  ?  "  asked  the  younger  of  the  two. 
"Mamma  saw  her  the  other  day,  and 
thought  that  she  seemed  more  like  herself  ; 
but  she  looked  very  old,  too.  She  told 
mamma  to  bring  her  dolls,  and  she  would 
give  her  some  bits  of  silk  to  make  them 
gowns.  Poor  mamma !  and  she  had  just 
been  wondering  how  she  could  manage  to  get 
us  ready  for  summer,  this  year,  —  Celestine 
and  me,"  and  the  speaker  smiled  wistfully. 

"  It  is  a  mercy  that  the  dear  old  lady  did 
forget  all  that  happened ;  "  and  the  friends 
brushed  some  last  bits  of  leaves  from  their 
skirts,  and  rose  and  walked  away  together 
through  the  churchyard. 


MISTRESS  OF  SYDENHAM  PLANTATION.     21 

The  ancient  church  waited  through  an 
other  Easter  Even,  with  its  flowers  and  long 
memory  of  prayer  and  praise.  The  great 
earthquake  had  touched  it  lightly,  time  had 
colored  it  softly,  and  the  earthly  bodies  of 
its  children  were  gathered  near  its  walls  in 
peaceful  sleep. 

From  one  of  the  high  houses  which  stood 
fronting  the  sea,  with  their  airy  balconies 
and  colonnades,  had  come  a  small,  slender 
figure,  like  some  shy,  dark  thing  of  twilight 
out  into  the  bright  sunshine.  The  street 
was  empty,  for  the  most  part ;  before  one  or 
two  of  the  cheap  German  shops  a  group  of 
men  watched  the  little  old  lady  step  proudly 
by.  She  was  a  very  stately  gentlewoman,  for 
one  so  small  and  thin  ;  she  was  feeble,  too, 
and  bending  somewhat  with  the  weight  of 
years,  but  there  was  true  elegance  and  dig 
nity  in  the  way  she  moved,  and  those  who 
saw  her  —  persons  who  shuffled  when  they 
walked,  and  boasted  loudly  of  the  fallen 
pride  of  the  South  —  were  struck  with  sud 
den  deference  and  admiration.  Behind  the 
lady  walked  a  gray -headed  negro,  a  man 
who  was  troubled  in  spirit,  who  sometimes 
gained  a  step  or  two,  and  offered  an  anx 
ious  but  quite  unheeded  remonstrance.  He 


22     MISTRESS  OF  SYDENHAM  PLANTATION. 

was  a  poor,  tottering  old  fellow  ;  he  wore  a 
threadbare  evening  coat  that  might  have  be 
longed  to  his  late  master  thirty  years  before. 
The  pair  went  slowly  along  the  bay  street 
to  the  end  of  a  row  of  new  shops,  and  the 
lady  turned  decidedly  toward  the  water,  and 
approached  the  ferry-steps.  Her  servitor 
groaned  aloud,  but  waited  in  respectful  help 
lessness.  There  was  a  group  of  negro  chil 
dren  on  the  steps,  employed  in  the  danger 
ous  business  of  crab  -  fishing  ;  at  the  foot, 
in  his  flat-bottomed  boat,  sat  a  wondering 
negro  lad,  who  looked  up  in  apprehension 
at  his  passengers.  The  lady  seemed  like  a 
ghost.  Old  Peter,  —  with  whose  scorn  of 
modern  beings  and  their  ways  he  was  par 
tially  familiar,  —  old  Peter  was  making  fran 
tic  signs  to  him  to  put  out  from  shore.  But 
the  lady's  calm  desire  for  obedience  pre 
vailed,  and  presently,  out  of  the  knot  of 
idlers  that  gathered  quickly,  one,  more  chiv 
alrous  than  the  rest,  helped  the  strange 
adventurers  down  into  the  boat.  It  was  the 
fashion  to  laugh  and  joke,  in  Beaufort,  when 
anything  unusual  was  happening  before  the 
eyes  of  the  younger  part  of  the  colored  pop 
ulation  ;  but  as  the  ferryman  pushed  off  from 
shore,  even  the  crab-fishers  kept  awe-struck 


MISTRESS  OF  SY  DENE  AM  PLANTATION.      23 

silence,  and  there  were  speechless,  open 
mouths  and  much  questioning  of  eyes  that 
showed  their  whites  in  vain.  Somehow  or 
other,  before  the  boat  was  out  of  hail,  long 
before  it  had  passed  the  first  bank  of  rac 
coon  oysters,  the  tide  being  at  the  ebb,  it  was 
known  by  fifty  people  that  for  the  first  time 
in  more  than  twenty  years  the  mistress  of 
the  old  Sydenham  plantation  on  St.  Helena's 
Island  had  taken  it  into  her  poor  daft  head 
to  go  to  look  after  her  estates,  her  crops,  and 
her  people.  Everybody  knew  that  her  es 
tates  had  been  confiscated  during  the  war ; 
that  her  people  owned  it  themselves  now,  in 
three  and  five  and  even  twenty  acre  lots  ; 
that  her  crops  of  rice  and  Sea  Island  cotton 
were  theirs,  planted  and  hoed  and  harvested 
on  their  own  account.  All  these  years  she 
had  forgotten  Sydenham,  and  the  live-oak  av 
enue,  and  the  outlook  across  the  water  to  the 
Hunting  Islands,  where  the  deer  ran  wild  ; 
she  had  forgotten  the  war  ;  she  had  forgotten 
her  children  and  her  husband,  except  that 
they  had  gone  away,  —  the  graves  to  which 
she  carried  Easter  flowers  were  her  mother's 
and  her  father's  graves,  —  and  her  life  was 
spent  in  a  strange  dream. 

Old  Peter  sat  facing  her  in  the  boat ;  the 


24     MISTRESS  OF  SY DENE  AM  PLANTATION. 

ferryman  pulled  lustily  at  his  oars,  and  they 
moved  quickly  along  in  the  ebbing  tide. 
The  ferryman  longed  to  get  his  freight 
safely  across ;  he  was  in  a  fret  of  discomfort 
whenever  he  looked  at  the  clear-cut,  eager 
face  before  him  in  the  stern.  How  still  and 
straight  the  old  mistress  sat !  Where  was 
she  going  ?  He  was  awed  by  her  presence, 
and  took  refuge,  as  he  rowed,  in  needless 
talk  about  the  coming  of  the  sandflies  and 
the  great  drum-fish  to  Beaufort  waters.  But 
Peter  had  clasped  his  hands  together  and 
bowed  his  old  back,  as  if  he  did  not  dare  to 
look  anywhere  but  at  the  bottom  of  the  boat. 
Peter  was  still  groaning  softly ;  the  old  lady 
was  looking  back  over  the  water  to  the  row 
of  fine  houses,  the  once  luxurious  summer 
homes  of  Rhetts  and  Barnwells,  of  many  a 
famous  household  now  scattered  and  impov 
erished.  The  ferryman  had  heard  of  more 
than  one  bereft  lady  or  gentleman  who  lived 
in  seclusion  in  the  old  houses.  He  knew  that 
Peter  still  served  a  mysterious  mistress  with 
exact  devotion,  while  most  of  the  elderly 
colored  men  and  women  who  had  formed  the 
retinues  of  the  old  families  were  following 
their  own  affairs,  far  and  wide. 

"  Oh,  Lord,  ole  mis' !  what   kin  I  go  to 


MISTRESS  OF  SYDENHAM  PLANTATION.     25 

do  ?  "  mumbled  Peter,  with  his  head  in  his 
hands.  "  Thar  '11  be  nothin'  to  see.  Po' 
ole  mis',  I  do'  kno'  what  you  say.  Trouble, 
trouble ! " 

But  the  mistress  of  Sydenham  plantation 
had  a  way  of  speaking  but  seldom,  and  of 
rarely  listening  to  what  any  one  was  pleased 
to  say  in  return.  Out  of  the  mistiness  of 
her  clouded  brain  a  thought  had  come  with 
unwonted  clearness.  She  must  go  to  the 
island  :  her  husband  and  sons  were  detained 
at  a  distance  ;  it  was  the  time  of  year  to  look 
after  corn  and  cotton;  she  must  attend  to 
her  house  and  her  slaves.  The  remembrance 
of  that  news  of  battle  and  of  the  three  deaths 
that  had  left  her  widowed  and  childless  had 
faded  away  in  the  illness  it  had  brought. 
She  never  comprehended  her  loss ;  she  was 
like  one  bewitched  into  indifference ;  she 
remembered  something  of  her  youth,  and 
kept  a  simple  routine  of  daily  life,  and  that 
was  all. 

"I  t'ought  she  done  fo'git  ebryt'ing," 
groaned  Peter  again.  "  O  Lord,  hab  mercy 
on  ole  mis' !  " 

The  landing-place  on  Ladies'  Island  was 
steep  and  sandy,  and  the  oarsman  watched 
Peter  help  the  strange  passenger  up  the 


26     MISTRESS  OF  SY DEN  HAM  PLANTATION. 

ascent  with  a  sense  of  blessed  relief.  He 
pushed  off  a  little  way  into  the  stream,  for 
better  self-defense.  At  the  top  of  the  bluff 
was  a  rough  shed,  built  for  shelter,  and 
Peter  looked  about  him  eagerly,  while  his 
mistress  stood,  expectant  and  imperious,  in 
the  shade  of  a  pride  of  India  tree,  that  grew 
among  the  live-oaks  and  pines  of  a  wild 
thicket.  He  was  wretched  with  a  sense  of 
her  discomfort,  though  she  gave  no  sign  of 
it.  He  had  learned  to  know  by  instinct  all 
that  was  unspoken.  In  the  old  times  she 
would  have  found  four  oarsmen  waiting  with 
a  cushioned  boat  at  the  ferry;  she  would 
have  found  a  saddle-horse  or  a  carriage 
ready  for  her  on  Ladies'  Island  for  the  five 
miles'  journey,  but  the  carriage  had  not  come. 
The  poor  gray-headed  old  man  recognized 
her  displeasure.  He  was  her  only  slave  left, 
if  she  did  but  know  it. 

"Fo'  Gord's  sake,  git  me  some  kin'  of  a 
cart.  Ole  mis',  she  done  wake  up  and  mean 
to  go  out  to  Syd'n'am  dis  day,"  urged  Peter. 
"  Who  dis  hoss  an'  kyart  in  de  shed  ?  Who 
make  dese  track  wid  huffs  jus'  now,  like  dey 
done  ride  by  ?  Yo'  go  git  somebody  f o'  me, 
or  she  be  right  mad,  shore." 

The  elderly  guardian  of  the  shed,  who  was 


MISTRESS  OF  SYDENHAM  PLANTATION.     27 

also  of  the  old  regime,  hobbled  away  quickly, 
and  backed  out  a  steer  that  was  broken  to 
harness,  and  a  rickety  two-wheeled  cart. 
Their  owner  had  left  them  there  for  some 
hours,  and  had  crossed  the  ferry  to  Beaufort. 
Old  mistress  must  be  obeyed,  and  they 
looked  toward  her  beseechingly  where  she 
was  waiting,  deprecating  her  disapproval  of 
this  poor  apology  for  a  conveyance.  The 
lady  long  since  had  ceased  to  concern  her 
self  with  the  outward  shapes  of  things ;  she 
accepted  this  possibility  of  carrying  out  her 
plans,  and  they  lifted  her  light  figure  to  the 
chair,  in  the  cart's  end,  while  Peter  mounted 
before  her  with  all  a  coachman's  dignity,  — 
he  once  had  his  ambitions  of  being  her 
coachman,  —  and  they  moved  slowly  away 
through  the  deep  sand. 

"My  Gord  A'mighty,  look  out  fo'  us 
now,"  said  Peter  over  and  over.  "  Ole  mis', 
she  done  fo'git,  good  Lord,  she  done  fo'git 
how  de  Good  Marsa  up  dere  done  took  f 'om 
her  ebryt'ing ;  she  'spect  now  she  find  Sy- 
d'n'am  all  de  same  like 's  it  was  'fo'  de  war. 
She  ain't  know  'bout  what 's  been  sence  day 
of  de  gun-shoot  on  Port  Royal  and  dar-away. 
O  Lord  A'mighty,  yo'  know  how  yo'  stove 
her  po'  head  wid  dem  gun-shoot ;  be  easy  to 
ole  mis'." 


28     MISTRESS  OF  SYDENHAM  PLANTATION. 

But  as  Peter  pleaded  in  the  love  and 
sorrow  of  his  heart,  the  lady  who  sat  behind 
him  was  unconscious  of  any  cause  for  grief. 
Some  sweet  vagaries  in  her  own  mind  were 
matched  to  the  loveliness  of  the  day.  All 
her  childhood,  spent  among  the  rustic  scenes 
of  these  fertile  Sea  Islands,  was  yielding  for 
her  now  an  undefined  pleasantness  of  asso 
ciation.  The  straight-stemmed  palmettos 
stood  out  with  picturesque  clearness  against 
the  great  level  fields,  with  their  straight 
furrows  running  out  of  sight.  Figures  of 
men  and  women  followed  the  furrow  paths 
slowly  ;  here  were  men  and  horses  bending 
to  the  ploughshare,  and  there  women  and 
children  sowed  with  steady  hand  the  rich 
seed  of  their  crops.  There  were  touches  of 
color  in  the  head  kerchiefs ;  there  were 
sounds  of  songs  as  the  people  worked,  —  not 
gay  songs  of  the  evening,  but  some  repeated 
line  of  a  hymn,  to  steady  the  patient  feet 
and  make  the  work  go  faster,  —  the  uncon 
scious  music  of  the  blacks,  who  sing  as  the 
beetle  drones  or  the  cricket  chirps  slowly  un 
der  the  dry  grass.  It  had  a  look  of  perma 
nence,  this  cotton-planting.  It  was  a  thing 
to  paint,  to  relate  itself  to  the  permanence 
of  art,  an  everlasting  duty  of  mankind; 


MJSTHZSS  OF  SYDENHAM  PLANTATION.     29 

terrible  if  a  thing  of  force  and  compulsion 
and  for  another's  gain,  but  the  birthright  of 
the  children  of  Adam,  and  not  unrewarded 
nor  unnatural  when  one  drew  by  it  one's 
own  life  from  the  earth. 

Peter  glanced  through  the  hedge -rows 
furtively,  this  way  and  that.  What  would 
his  mistress  say  to  the  cabins  that  were 
scattered  all  about  the  fields  now,  and  that 
were  no  longer  put  together  in  the  long  lines 
of  the  quarters  ?  He  looked  down  a  deserted 
lane,  where  he  well  remembered  fifty  cabins 
on  each  side  of  the  way.  It  was  gay  there 
of  a  summer  evening  ;  the  old  times  had 
not  been  without  their  pleasures,  and  the 
poor  old  man's  heart  leaped  with  the  vague 
delight  of  his  memories.  He  had  never 
been  on  the  block ;  he  was  born  and  bred  at 
old  Sydenham ;  he  had  been  trusted  in 
house  and  field. 

"  I  done  like  dem  ole  times  de  best," 
ventures  Peter,  presently,  to  his  unrespond- 
ing  companion.  "  Dere  was  good  'bout  dem 
times.  I  say  I  like  de  ole  times  good  as 
any.  Young  folks  may  be  a  change  f'om 
me." 

He  was  growing  gray  in  the  face  with 
apprehension;  he  did  not  dare  to  disobey. 


30     MISTRESS  OF  SYDENHAM  PLANTATION. 

The  slow-footed  beast  of  burden  was  carry 
ing  them  toward  Sydenham  step  by  step, 
and  he  dreaded  the  moment  of  arrival.  He 
was  like  a  mesmerized  creature,  who  can 
only  obey  the  force  of  a  directing  will ;  but 
under  pretense  of  handling  the  steer's  har 
ness,  he  got  stiffly  to  the  ground  to  look  at 
his  mistress.  He  could  not  turn  to  face  her, 
as  he  sat  in  the  cart ;  he  could  not  drive  any 
longer  and  feel  her  there  behind  him.  The 
silence  was  too  great.  It  was  a  relief  to  see 
her  placid  face,  and  to  see  even  a  more 
youthful  look  in  its  worn  lines.  She  had 
been  a  very  beautiful  woman  in  her  young 
days.  And  a  solemn  awe  fell  upon  Peter's 
tender  heart,  lest  the  veil  might  be  lifting 
from  her  hidden  past,  and  there,  alone  with 
him  on  the  old  plantation,  she  would  die  of 
grief  and  pain.  God  only  knew  what  might 
happen  !  The  old  man  mounted  to  his  seat, 
and  again  they  plodded  on. 

"  Peter,"  said  the  mistress,  —  he  was  al 
ways  frightened  when  she  spoke,  —  "  Peter, 
we  must  hurry.  I  was  late  in  starting.  I 
have  a  great  deal  to  do.  Urge  the  horses." 

"Yas,  mis',  —  yas,  mis',"  and  Peter 
laughed  aloud  nervously,  and  brandished 
his  sassafras  switch,  while  the  steer  hastened 


MISTRESS  OF  SYDENIIAM  PLANTATION.     31 

a  little.  They  had  come  almost  to  the 
gates. 

"  Who  are  these  ? "  the  stately  wayfarer 
asked  once,  as  they  met  some  persons  who 
gazed  at  them  in  astonishment. 

"  I  'spect  dem  de  good  ladies  f 'om  de 
Norf,  what  come  down  to  show  de  cullud 
folks  how  to  do  readin',''  answered  Peter 
bravely.  "  It  do  look  kind  o'  comfo'ble 
over  here,"  he  added  wistfully,  half  to  him 
self.  He  could  not  understand  even  now 
how  oblivious  she  was  of  the  great  changes 
on  St.  Helena's. 

There  were  curious  eyes  watching  from 
the  fields,  and  here  by  the  roadside  an  aged 
black  woman  came  to  her  cabin  door. 

"  Lord  !  "  exclaimed  Peter,  "  what  kin  I 
do  now  ?  An'  ole  Sibyl,  she 's  done  crazy 
too,  and  dey  '11  be  mischievous  together." 

The  steer  could  not  be  hurried  past,  and 
Sibyl  came  and  leaned  against  the  wheel. 
"  Mornin',  mistis,"  said  Sibyl,  "  an'  yo'  too, 
Peter.  How  's  all  ?  Day  ob  judgment 's 
comin'  in  mornin' !  Some  nice  buttermilk  ? 
I  done  git  rich ;  t'at  's  my  cow,"  and  she 
pointed  to  the  field  and  chuckled.  Peter 
felt  as  if  his  brain  were  turning.  "  Bless 
de  Lord,  I  no  more  slave,"  said  old  Sibyl, 


32     MIS TRE SS  OF  SYDENHAM  PLANTATION. 

looking  up  with  impudent  scrutiny  at  her 
old  mistress's  impassive  face.  "  Yo'  know 
Mars'  Middleton,  what  yo'  buy  me  f 'om  ? 
He  my  foster-brother ;  we  push  away  from 
same  breast.  He  got  trouble,  po'  gen 'el- 
man  ;  he  sorry  to  sell  Sibyl ;  he  give  me  sil 
ver  dollar  dat  day,  an'  feel  bad.  "  Neber 
min',  I  say.  I  get  good  mistis,  young  mistis 
at  Sydenham.  I  like  her  well,  I  did  so. 
I  pick  my  two  hunderd  poun'  all  days,  an*  I 
ain't  whipped.  Too  bad  sold  me,  po'  Mars' 
Middleton,  but  he  in  trouble.  He  done 
come  see  me  last  plantiii',"  Sibyl  went  on 
proudly.  "  Oh,  Gord,  he  grown  ole  and 
poor-lookin'.  He  come  in,  just  in  dat  do', 
an'  he  say,  '  Sibyl,  I  long  an'  long  to  see 
you,  an'  now  I  see  you ; '  an'  he  kiss  an'  kiss 
me.  An'  dere  'sone  wide  ribber  o'  Jordan, 
an'  we  '11  soon  be  dere,  black  an'  white.  I 
was  right  glad  I  see  ole  Mars'  Middleton 
'fore  I  die." 

The  old  creature  poured  forth  the  one 
story  of  her  great  joy  and  pride  ;  she  had 
told  it  a  thousand  times.  It  had  happened, 
not  the  last  planting,  but  many  plantings 
ago.  It  remained  clear  when  everything 
else  was  confused.  There  was  no  knowing 
what  she  might  say  next.  She  began  to 


MISTRESS  OF  SYDENHAM  PLANTATION.     33 

take  the  strange  steps  of  a  slow  dance,  and 
Peter  urged  his  steer  forward,  while  his 
mistress  said  suddenly,  "  Good-by,  Sibyl.  I 
am  glad  you  are  doing  so  well,"  with  a 
strange  irrelevancy  of  graciousness.  It  was 
in  the  old  days  before  the  war  that  Sibyl 
had  fallen  insensible,  one  day,  in  the  cotton- 
field.  Did  her  mistress  think  that  it  was 
still  that  year,  and  —  Peter's  mind  could 
not  puzzle  out  this  awful  day  of  anxiety. 

They  turned  at  last  into  the  live-oak  ave 
nue,  —  they  had  only  another  half  mile  to 
go ;  and  here,  in  the  place  where  the  lady 
had  closest  association,  her  memory  was  sud 
denly  revived  almost  to  clearness.  She  be 
gan  to  hurry  Peter  impatiently;  it  was  a 
mischance  that  she  had  not  been  met  at  the 
ferry.  She  was  going  to  see  to  putting  the 
house  in  order,  and  the  women  were  all 
waiting.  It  was  autumn,  and  they  were  go 
ing  to  move  over  from  Beaufort ;  it  was 
spring  next  moment,  and  she  had  to  talk 
with  her  overseers.  The  old  imperiousness 
flashed  out.  Did  not  Peter  know  that  his 
master  was  kept  at  the  front,  and  the  young 
gentlemen  were  with  him,  and  their  regi 
ment  was  going  into  action?  It  was  a 
blessing  to  come  over  and  forget  it  all,  but 


34     MISTEESS  OF  SY DEN II AM  PLANTATION. 

Peter  must  drive,  drive.  They  had  taken 
no  care  of  the  avenue ;  how  the  trees  were 
broken  in  the  storm  !  The  house  needed  — 
They  were  going  to  move  the  next  day  but 
one,  and  nothing  was  ready.  A  party  of 
gentlemen  were  coining  from  Charleston  in 
the  morning !  — 

They  passed  the  turn  of  the  avenue ; 
they  came  out  to  the  open  lawn,  and  the 
steer  stopped  and  began  to  browse.  Peter 
shook  from  head  to  foot.  He  climbed  down 
by  the  wheel,  and  turned  his  face  slowly. 
"  Ole  mis' !  "  he  said  feebly.  "  Ole  mis'  !  " 

She  was  looking  off  into  space.  The  cart 
jerked  as  it  moved  after  the  feeding  steer. 
The  mistress  of  Sydenham  plantation  had 
sought  her  home  in  vain.  The  crumbled, 
fallen  chimneys  of  the  house  were  there 
among  the  weeds,  and  that  was  all. 

On  Christmas  Day  and  Easter  Day, 
many  an  old  man  and  woman  come  into  St. 
Helena's  Church  who  are  not  seen  there  the 
rest  of  the  year.  There  are  not  a  few  re 
cluses  in  the  parish,  who  come  to  listen  to 
their  teacher  and  to  the  familiar  prayers, 
read  with  touching  earnestness  and  sim 
plicity,  as  one  seldom  hears  the  prayers 


MISTRESS  OF  S  YD E Nil AM  PLANTATION.      35 

read  anywhere.  This  Easter  morning 
dawned  clear  and  bright,  as  Easter  morning 
should.  The  fresh-bloomed  roses  and  lilies 
were  put  in  their  places.  There  was  no 
touch  of  paid  hands  anywhere,  and  the  fra 
grance  blew  softly  about  the  church.  As 
you  sat  in  your  pew,  you  could  look  out 
through  the  wide-opened  doors,  and  see  the 
drooping  branches,  and  the  birds  as  they  sat 
singing  on  the  gravestones.  The  sad  faces 
of  the  old  people,  the  cheerful  faces  of  the 
young,  passed  by  up  the  aisle.  One  figure 
came  to  sit  alone  in  one  of  the  pews,  to 
bend  its  head  in  prayer  after  the  ancient 
habit.  Peter  led  her,  as  usual,  to  the  broad- 
aisle  doorway,  and  helped  her,  stumbling 
himself,  up  the  steps,  and  many  eyes  filled 
with  tears  as  his  mistress  went  to  her  place. 
Even  the  tragic  moment  of  yesterday  was 
lost  already  in  the  acquiescence  of  her  mind, 
as  the  calm  sea  shines  back  to  the  morning 
sun  when  another  wreck  has  gone  down. 


HE  TOWN  POOR. 


MRS.  WILLIAM  TRIMBLE  and  Miss  Re 
becca  Wright  were  driving  along  Hampden 
east  road,  one  afternoon  in  early  spring. 
Their  progress  was  slow.  Mrs.  Trimble's 
sorrel  horse  was  old  and  stiff,  and  the  wheels 
were  clogged  by  clay  mud.  The  frost  was 
not  yet  out  of  the  ground,  although  the  snow 
was  nearly  gone,  except  in  a  few  places  on 
the  north  side  of  the  woods,  or  where  it  had 
drifted  all  winter  against  a  length  of  fence. 

"  There  must  be  a  good  deal  o'  snow  to 
the  nor'ard  of  us  yet,"  said  weather-wise 
Mrs.  Trimble.  "  I  feel  it  in  the  air ;  't  is 
more  than  the  ground -damp.  We  ain't 
goin'  to  have  real  nice  weather  till  the  up- 
country  snow  's  all  gone." 

"I  heard  say  yesterday  that  there  was 
good  sleddin'  yet,  all  up  through  Parsley," 
responded  Miss  Wright.  "  I  should  n't  like 
to  live  in  them  northern  places.  My  cousin 
Ellen's  husband  was  a  Parsley  man,  an'  he 
was  obliged,  as  you  may  have  heard,  to  go 


THE  TOWN  POOR.  37 

up  north  to  his  father's  second  wife's  fune 
ral  ;  got  back  day  before  yesterday.  'T  was 
about  twenty-one  miles,  an'  they  started  on 
wheels ;  but  when  they  'd  gone  nine  or  ten 
miles,  they  found  't  was  no  sort  o'  use,  an' 
left  their  wagon  an'  took  a  sleigh.  The 
man  that  owned  it  charged  'em  four  an'  six, 
too.  I  should  n't  have  thought  he  would  ; 
they  told  him  they  was  goin'  to  a  funeral ; 
an'  they  had  their  own  buffaloes  an'  every 
thing." 

"  Well,  I  expect  it 's  a  good  deal  harder 
scratching  up  that  way ;  they  have  to  git 
money  where  they  can  ;  the  farms  is  very 
poor  as  you  go  north,"  suggested  Mrs. 
Trimble  kindly.  "  'T  ain't  none  too  rich  a 
country  where  we  be,  but  I  've  always  been 
grateful  I  wa'n't  born  up  to  Parsley." 

The  old  horse  plodded  along,  and  the  sun, 
coming  out  from  the  heavy  spring  clouds, 
sent  a  sudden  shine  of  light  along  the  muddy 
road.  Sister  Wright  drew  her  large  veil 
forward  over  the  high  brim  of  her  bonnet. 
She  was  not  used  to  driving,  or  to  being 
much  in  the  open  air;  but  Mrs.  Trimble 
was  an  active  business  woman,  and  looked 
after  her  own  affairs  herself,  in  all  weathers. 
The  late  Mr.  Trimble  had  left  her  a  £Ood 


38  THE   TOWN  POOR. 

farm,  but  not  much  ready  money,  and  it  was 
often  said  that  she  was  better  off  in  the  end 
than  if  he  had  lived.  She  regretted  his  loss 
deeply,  however ;  it  was  impossible  for  her 
to  speak  of  him,  even  to  intimate  friends, 
without  emotion,  and  nobody  had  ever 
hinted  that  this  emotion  was  insincere.  She 
was  most  warm-hearted  and  generous,  and 
in  her  limited  way  played  the  part  of  Lady 
Bountiful  in  the  town  of  Hampden. 

"  Why,  there's  where  the  Bray  girls 
lives,  ain't  it  ?  "  she  exclaimed,  as,  beyond 
a  thicket  of  witch-hazel  and  scrub-oak,  they 
came  in  sight  of  a  weather-beaten,  solitary 
farmhouse.  The  barn  was  too  far  away  for 
thrift  or  comfort,  and  they  could  see  long 
lines  of  light  between  the  shrunken  boards 
as  they  came  nearer.  The  fields  looked  both 
stony  and  sodden.  Somehow,  even  Parsley 
itself  could  be  hardly  more  forlorn. 

"  Yes  'm,"  said  Miss  Wright,  "  that  's 
where  they  live  now,  poor  things.  I  know 
the  place,  though  I  ain't  been  up  here  for 
years.  You  don't  suppose,  Mis'  Trimble  — 
I  ain't  seen  the  girls  out  to  meetin'  all  win 
ter.  I  've  re'lly  been  covetin' ': 

"  Why,  yes,  Rebecca,  of  course  we  could 
stop,"  answered  Mrs.  Trimble  heartily. 


THE   TOWN  POOR.  39 

"  The  exercises  was  over  earlier  'n  I  ex 
pected,  an'  you  're  goin'  to  remain  over 
night  long  o'  me,  you  know.  There  won't 
be  no  tea  till  we  git  there,  so  we  can't  be 
late.  I  'm  in  the  habit  o'  sendin'  a  basket 
to  the  Bray  girls  when  any  o'  our  folks  is 
comin'  this  way,  but  I  ain't  been  to  see  'em 
since  they  moved  up  here.  Why,  it  must 
be  a  good  deal  over  a  year  ago.  I  know 
't  was  in  the  late  winter  they  had  to  make  the 
move.  'T  was  cruel  hard,  I  must  say,  an'  if 
I  had  n't  been  down  with  my  pleurisy  fever 
I  'd  have  stirred  round  an'  done  somethin' 
about  it.  There  was  a  good  deal  o'  sickness 
at  tlip  time,  an'  —  well,  't  was  kind  o'  rushed 
through,  breakin'  of  'em  up,  an'  lots  o'  folks 
)lamed  the  selectmen  ;  but  when  't  was  done, 
't  was  done,  an'  nobody  took  holt  to  undo 
it.  Ann  an'  Mandy  looked  same  's  ever 
when  they  come  to  meetin',  'long  in  the  sum 
mer,  —  kind  o'  wishful,  perhaps.  They  Ve 
always  sent  me  word  they  was  gittin'  on 
pretty  comfortable." 

"  That  would  be  their  way,"  said  Rebecca 
Wright.  "  They  never  was  any  hand  to 
complain,  though  Mandy  's  less  cheerful 
than  Ann.  If  Mandy  'd  been  spared  such 
poor  eyesight,  an'  Ann  had  n't  got  her  lame 


40  THE   TOWN  POOR. 

wrist  that  wa'n't  set  right,  they  'd  kep'  off 
the  town  fast  enough.  They  both  shed  tears 
when  they  talked  to  me  about  havin'  to 
break  up,  when  I  went  to  see  'em  before  I 
went  over  to  brother  Asa's.  You  see  we 
was  brought  up  neighbors,  an*  we  went  to 
school  together,  the  Brays  an7  me.  'T  was 
a  special  Providence  brought  us  home  this 
road,  I  Ve  been  so  covetin'  a  chance  to  git 
to  see  'em.  My  lameness  hampers  me." 

"  I  'm  glad  we  come  this  way,  myself," 
said  Mrs.  Trimble. 

"  I  'd  like  to  see  just  how  they  fare,"  Miss 
Rebecca  Wright  continued.  "They  give 
their  consent  to  goin'  on  the  town  because 
they  knew  they  'd  got  to  be  dependent,  an' 
so  they  felt  't  would  come  easier  for  all  than 
for  a  few  to  help  'em.  They  acted  real  dig 
nified  an'  right-minded,  contrary  to  what 
most  do  in  such  cases,  but  they  was  dreadful 
anxious  to  see  who  would  bid  'em  off,  town- 
meeting  day ;  they  did  so  hope  't  would  be 
somebody  right  in  the  village.  I  just  sat 
down  an'  cried  good  when  I  found  Abel 
Janes's  folks  had  got  hold  of  'em.  They 
always  had  the  name  of  bein'  slack  an'  poor- 
spirited,  an'  they  did  it  just  for  what  they 
got  out  o'  the  town.  The  selectmen  this 


THE   TOWN  POOR.  41 

last  year  ain't  what  we  have  had.  I  hope 
they  've  been  considerate  about  the  Bray 
girls." 

"I  should  have  be'n  more  considerate 
about  fetchiii'  of  you  over,"  apologized  Mrs. 
Trimble.  "  I  Ve  got  my  horse,  an'  you  're 
lame-footed  ;  't  is  too  far  for  you  to  come. 
But  time  does  slip  away  with  busy  folks,  an' 
I  forgit  a  good  deal  I  ought  to  remember." 

"  There  's  nobody  more  considerate  than 
you  be,"  protested  Miss  Rebecca  Wright. 

Mrs.  Trimble  made  no  answer,  but  took 
out  her  whip  and  gently  touched  the  sorrel 
horse,  who  walked  considerably  faster,  but 
did  not  think  it  worth  while  to  trot.  It  was 
a  long,  round-about  way  to  the  house,  farther 
down  the  road  and  up  a  lane. 

"I  never  had  any  opinion  of  the  Bray 
girls'  father,  leavin'  'em  as  he  did,"  said 
Mrs.  Trimble. 

"  He  was  much  praised  in  his  time,  though 
there  was  always  some  said  his  early  life 
hadn't  been  up  to  the  mark,"  explained 
her  companion.  "  He  was  a  great  favorite 
of  our  then  preacher,  the  Reverend  Daniel 
Longbrother.  They  did  a  good  deal  for 
the  parish,  but  they  did  it  their  own  way. 
Deacon  Bray  was  one  that  did  his  part 


42  THE   TOWN  POOR. 

in  the  repairs  without  urging.  You  know 
't  was  in  his  time  the  first  repairs  was  made, 
when  they  got  out  the  old  soundin'-board  an' 
them  handsome  square  pews.  It  cost  an 
awful  sight  o'  money,  too.  They  had  n't 
done  payin'  up  that  debt  when  they  set  to 
alter  it  again  an'  git  the  walls  frescoed. 
My  grandmother  was  one  that  always  spoke 
her  mind  right  out,  an'  she  was  dreadful 
opposed  to  breakin'  up  the  square  pews 
where  she  'd  always  set.  They  was  countin' 
up  what  't  would  cost  in  parish  meetin',  an' 
she  riz  right  up  an'  said  't  would  n't  cost 
nothin'  to  let  'em  stay,  an'  there  wa'n't  a 
house  carpenter  left  in  the  parish  that  could 
do  such  nice  work,  an'  time  would  come 
when  the  great-grandchildren  would  give 
their  eye-teeth  to  have  the  old  meetm'-house 
look  just  as  it  did  then.  But  haul  the  inside 
to  pieces  they  would  and  did." 

"There  come  to  be  a  real  fight  over  it, 
did  n't  there  ?  "  agreed  Mrs.  Trimble  sooth 
ingly.  "  Well,  't  wa'n't  good  taste.  I  re 
member  the  old  house  well.  I  come  here 
as  a  child  to  visit  a  cousin  o'  mother's,  an' 
Mr.  Trimble's  folks  was  neighbors,  an'  we 
was  drawed  to  each  other  then,  young  's  we 
was.  Mr.  Trimble  spoke  of  it  many  's  the 


THE  TOWN  POOR.  43 

time,  —  that  first  time  he  ever  see  me,  in  a 
leghorn  hat  with  a  feather  ;  't  was  one  that 
mother  had,  an'  pressed  over." 

"  When  I  think  of  them  old  sermons  that 
used  to  be  preached  in  that  old  meetin '-house 
of  all,  I  'm  glad  it 's  altered  over,  so  's  not 
to  remind  folks,"  said  Miss  Rebecca  Wright, 
after  a  suitable  pause.  "  Them  old  brim 
stone  discourses,  you  know,  Mis'  Trimble. 
Preachers  is  far  more  reasonable,  nowadays. 
Why,  I  set  an'  thought,  last  Sabbath,  as 
I  listened,  that  if  old  Mr.  Longbrother  an' 
Deacon  Bray  could  hear  the  difference  they  'd 
crack  the  ground  over  'em  like  pole  beans,  an' 
come  right  up  'long  side  their  headstones." 

Mrs.  Trimble  laughed  heartily,  and  shook 
the  reins  three  or  four  times  by  way  of  em 
phasis.  "There  's  no  gitting  round  you," 
she  said,  much  pleased.  "  I  should  think 
Deacon  Bray  would  want  to  rise,  any  way, 
if  't  was  so  he  could,  an'  knew  how  his  poor 
girls  was  farin'.  A  man  ought  to  provide 
for  his  folks  he  's  got  to  leave  behind  him, 
specially  if  they  're  women.  To  be  sure, 
they  had  their  little  home ;  but  we  've  seen 
how,  with  all  their  industrious  ways,  they 
had  n't  means  to  keep  it.  I  s'pose  he 
thought  he  'd  got  time  enough  to  lay  by, 


44  THE  TOWN  POOR. 

when  he  give  so  generous  in  collections ; 
but  he  did  n't  lay  by,  an'  there  they  be. 
He  might  have  took  lessons  from  the 
squirrels :  even  them  little  wild  creatur's 
makes  them  their  winter  hoards,  an'  men- 
folks  ought  to  know  enough  if  squirrels 
does.  '  Be  just  before  you  are  generous  : ' 
that's  what  was  always  set  for  the  B's  in 
the  copy-books,  when  I  was  to  school,  and  it 
often  runs  through  my  mind." 

"  '  As  for  man,  his  days  are  as  grass,'  — 
that  was  for  A  ;  the  two  go  well  together,'* 
added  Miss  Rebecca  Wright  soberly.  "  My 
good  gracious,  ain't  this  a  starved-lookin' 
place?  It  makes  me  ache  to  think  them 
nice  Bray  girls  has  to  brook  it  here." 

The  sorrel  horse,  though  somewhat  puzzled 
by  an  unexpected  deviation  from  his  home 
ward  way,  willingly  came  to  a  stand  by  the 
gnawed  corner  of  the  door-yard  fence,  which 
evidently  served  as  hitching-place.  Two  or 
three  ragged  old  hens  were  picking  about 
the  yard,  and  at  last  a  face  appeared  at  the 
kitchen  window,  tied  up  in  a  handkerchief, 
as  if  ii  were  a  case  of  toothache.  By  the 
time  our  friends  reached  the  side  door  next 
this  window,  Mrs.  Janes  came  disconso 
lately  to  open  it  for  them,  shutting  it  again 


THE  TOWN  POOR.  45 

as  soon  as  possible,  though  the  air  felt  more 
chilly  inside  the  house. 

"  Take  seats,"  said  Mrs.  Janes  briefly. 
"You  '11  have  to  see  me  just  as  I  be.  I 
have  been  suffering  these  four  days  with  the 
ague,  and  everything  to  do.  Mr.  Janes  is 
to  court,  on  the  jury.  'T  was  inconvenient 
to  spare  him.  I  should  be  pleased  to  have 
you  lay  off  your  things." 

Comfortable  Mrs.  Trimble  looked  about 
the  cheerless  kitchen,  and  could  not  think 
of  anything  to  say ;  so  she  smiled  blandly 
and  shook  her  head  in«  answer  to  the  in 
vitation.  "  We  '11  just  set  a  few  minutes 
with  you,  to  pass  the  time  o'  day,  an'  then 
we  must  go  in  an'  have  a  word  with  the 
Miss  Brays,  bein'  old  acquaintance.  It 
ain't  been  so  we  could  git  to  call  on  'em  be 
fore.  I  don't  know  's  you  're  acquainted 
with  Miss  R'becca  W  right.  She  's  been  out 
of  town  a  good  deal." 

"  I  heard  she  was  stopping  over  to  Plain- 
fields  with  her  brother's  folks,"  replied  Mrs. 
Janes,  rocking  herself  with  irregular  motion, 
as  she  sat  close  to  the  stove.  "  Got  back 
some  time  in  the  fall,  I  believe  ?  " 

"  Yes  'in,"  said  Miss  Rebecca,  with  an 
undue  sense  of  guilt  and  conviction. 


46  THE   TOWN  POOR. 

"  We  've  been  to  the  installation  over  to  the 
East  Parish,  an'  thought  we  'd  stop  in ;  we 
took  this  road  home  to  see  if  't  was  any 
better.  How  is  the  Miss  Brays  gettin'  on  ?  " 

"  They  're  well  's  common,"  answered 
Mrs.  Janes  grudgingly.  "  1  was  put  out 
with  Mr.  Janes  for  fetchin'  of  'em  here, 
with  all  I  've  got  to  do,  an'  I  own  I  was 
kind  o'  surly  to  'em  'long  to  the  first  of  it. 
He  gits  the  money  from  the  town,  an'  it 
helps  him  out ;  but  he  bid  'em  off  for  five 
dollars  a  month,  an'  we  can't  do  much  for 
'em  at  no  such  price  as  that.  I  went  an' 
dealt  with  the  selec'men,  an'  made  'em 
promise  to  find  their  firewood  an'  some  other 
things  extra.  They  was  glad  to  get  rid  o' 
the  matter  the  fourth  time  I  went,  an' 
would  ha'  promised  'most  anything.  But 
Mr.  Janes  don't  keep  me  half  the  time  in 
oven-wood,  He 's  off  so  much,  an'  we  was 
cramped  o'  room,  any  way.  I  have  to  store 
things  up  garrit  a  good  deal,  an'  that  keeps 
me  trampin'  right  through  their  room.  I 
do  the  best  for  'em  I  can,  Mis'  Trimble, 
but  't  ain't  so  easy  for  me  as  't  is  for  you, 
with  all  your  means  to  do  with." 

The  poor  woman  looked  pinched  and  mis 
erable  herself,  though  it  was  evident  that 


THE   TOWN  POOR.  47 

she  had  no  gift  at  house  or  home  keeping. 
Mrs.  Trimble's  heart  was  wrung  with  pain, 
as  she  thought  of  the  unwelcome  inmates  of 
such  a  place ;  but  she  held  her  peace  bravely, 
while  Miss  Rebecca  again  gave  some  brief 
information  in  regard  to  the  installation. 

"  You  go  right  up  them  back  stairs,"  the 
hostess  directed  at  last.  "  I  'm  glad  some 
o'  you  church  folks  has  seen  fit  to  come  an" 
visit  'em.  There  ain't  been  nobody  here 
this  long  spell,  an'  they  've  aged  a  sight 
since  they  come.  They  always  send  down  a 
taste  out  of  your  baskets,  Mis'  Trimble,  an' 
I  relish  it,  I  tell  you.  I  '11  shut  the  door 
after  you,  if  you  don't  object.  I  feel  every 
draught  o'  cold  air." 

"  I  've  always  heard  she  was  a  great  hand 
to  make  a  poor  mouth.  Wa'n't  she  from 
somewheres  up  Parsley  way  ?  "  whispered 
Miss  Rebecca,  as  they  stumbled  in  the  half- 
light. 

"  Poor  meechin'  body,  wherever  she  come 
from,"  replied  Mrs.  Trimble,  as  she  knocked 
at  the  door. 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment  after 
this  unusual  sound ;  then  one  of  the  Bray 
sisters  opened  the  door.  The  eager  guests 
stared  into  a  small,  low  room,  brown  with 


48  THE  TOWN  POOR. 

age,  and  gray,  too,  as  if  former  dust  and 
cobwebs  could  not  be  made  wholly  to  disap 
pear.  The  two  elderly  women  who  stood 
there  looked  like  captives.  Their  withered 
faces  wore  a  look  of  apprehension,  and  the 
room  itself  was  more  bare  and  plain  than 
was  fitting  to  their  evident  refinement  of 
character  and  self-respect.  There  was  an 
uncovered  small  table  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor,  with  some  crackers  on  a  plate ;  and, 
for  some  reason  or  other,  this  added  a  great 
deal  to  the  general  desolation. 

But  Miss  Ann  Bray,  the  elder  sister,  who 
carried  her  right  arm  in  a  sling,  with  pite- 
ously  drooping  fingers,  gazed  at  the  visitors 
with  radiant  joy.  She  had  not  seen  them 
arrive. 

The  one  window  gave  only  the  view  at 
the  back  of  the  house,  across  the  fields,  and 
their  coming  was  indeed  a  surprise.  The 
next  minute  she  was  laughing  and  crying 
together.  "  Oh,  sister  !  "  she  said,  "  if  here 
ain't  our  dear  Mis'  Trimble !  —  an'  my 
heart  o'  goodness,  't  is  'Becca  Wright,  too ! 
What  dear  good  creatur's  you  be !  I  've 
felt  all  day  as  if  something  good  was  goin' 
to  happen,  an'  was  just  sayin'  to  myself 
't  was  most  sundown  now,  but  I  would  n't 


THE   TOWN  POOR.  49 

let  on  to  Mandany  I  'd  give  up  hope  quite 
yet.  You  see,  the  scissors  stuck  in  the 
floor  this  very  mornin'  an'  it's  always  a  reli 
able  sign.  There,  I  've  got  to  kiss  ye  both 
again ! " 

"  I  don't  know  where  we  can  all  set," 
lamented  sister  Mandana.  "  There  ain't  but 
the  one  chair  an'  the  bed ;  t'  other  chair  's 
too  rickety  ;  an'  we  've  been  promised  an 
other  these  ten  days  ;  but  first  they  've  for 
got  it,  an'  next  Mis'  Janes  can't  spare  it,  — 
one  excuse  an'  another.  I  am  goin'  to  git 
a  stump  o'  wood  an'  nail  a  board  on  to  it, 
when  I  can  git  outdoor  again,"  said  Man 
dana,  in  a  plaintive  voice.  u  There,  I  ain't 
goin'  to  complain  o'  nothin',  now  you  'vc 
come,"  she  added ;  and  the  guests  sat  down, 
Mrs.  Trimble,  as  was  proper,  in  the  one 
chair. 

"  We  Ve  sat  on  the  bed  many 's  the  time 
with  you,  'Becca,  an'  talked  over  our  girl 
nonsense,  ain't  we  ?  You  know  where  't  was 
—  in  the  little  back  bedroom  we  had  when 
we  was  girls,  an'  used  to  peek  out  at  our 
beaux  through  the  strings  o'  mormn'-glo- 
ries,"  laughed  Ann  Bray  delightedly,  her 
thin  face  shining  more  and  more  with 
joy  "  I  brought  some  o'  them  mornin'- 


50  THE   TOWN  POOR. 

glory  seeds  along  when  we  come  away,  we  'd 
raised  'em  so  many  years ;  an'  we  got  'em 
started  all  right,  but  the  hens  found  'em 
out.  I  declare  I  chased  them  poor  hens, 
foolish  as  'twas;  but  the  mornin'-glories 
I  'd  counted  on  a  sight  to  remind  me  o'  home0 
You  see,  our  debts  was  so  large,  after  my 
long  sickness  an'  all,  that  we  did  n't  feel 
't  was  right  to  keep  back  anything  we  could 
help  from  the  auction." 

It  was  impossible  for  any  one  to  speak 
for  a  moment  or  two ;  the  sisters  felt  their 
own  uprooted  condition  afresh,  and  their 
guests  for  the  first  time  really  compre 
hended  the  piteous  contrast  between  that 
neat  little  village  house,  which  now  seemed 
a  palace  of  comfort,  and  this  cold,  unpainted 
upper  room  in  the  remote  Janes  farmhouse. 
It  was  an  unwelcome  thought  to  Mrs.  Trim 
ble  that  the  well-to-do  town  of  Hampden 
could  provide  no  better  for  its  poor  than 
this,  and  her  round  face  flushed  with  resent 
ment  and  the  shame  of  personal  responsi 
bility.  u  The  girls  shall  be  well  settled  in 
the  village  before  another  winter,  if  I  pay 
their  board  myself,"  she  made  an  inward 
resolution,  and  took  another  almost  tearful 
look  at  the  broken  stove,  the  miserable  bed, 


THE   TOWN  POOR.  51 

and  the  sisters'  one  hair-covered  trunk,  on 
which  Mandaiia  was  sitting.  But  the  poor 
place  was  filled  with  a  golden  spirit  of  hos 
pitality. 

Rebecca  was  again  discoursing  eloquently 
of  the  installation  ;  it  was  so  much  easier 
to  speak  of  general  subjects,  and  the  sisters 
had  evidently  been  longing  to  hear  some 
news.  Since  the  late  summer  they  had  not 
been  to  church,  and  presently  Mrs.  Trimble 
asked  the  reason. 

"  Now,  don't  you  go  to  pouring  out  our 
woes,  Mandy  !  "  begged  little  old  Ann,  look 
ing  shy  and  almost  girlish,  and  as  if  she 
insisted  upon  playing  that  life  was  still 
all  before  them  and  all  pleasure.  "Don't 
you  go  to  spoilin'  their  visit  with  our  com 
plaints  !  They  know  well 's  we  do  that 
changes  must  come,  an'  we  'd  been  so 
wonted  to  our  home  things  that  this  come 
hard  at  first ;  but  then  they  felt  for  us,  I 
know  just  as  well 's  can  be.  'T  will  soon  be 
summer  again,  an'  't  is  real  pleasant  right 
out  in  the  fields  here,  when  there  ain't  too 
hot  a  spell.  I  Ve  got  to  know  a  sight  o' 
singin'  birds  since  we  come." 

"  Give  me  the  folks  I  've  always  known," 
sighed  the  younger  sister,  who  looked  older 


52  THE   TOWN  POOR. 

than  Miss  Ann,  and  less  even-tempered. 
"  You  may  have  your  birds,  if  you  want  'em. 
I  do  re'lly  long  to  go  to  meetin'  an'  see  folks 
go  by  up  the  aisle.  Now,  I  will  speak  of  it, 
Ann,  whatever  you  say.  We  need,  each  of 
us,  a  pair  o'  good  stout  shoes  an'  rubbers,  — 
ours  are  all  wore  out ;  an'  we  've  asked  an' 
asked,  an'  they  never  think  to  bring  'em, 
an'"  — 

Poor  old  Mandana,  on  the  trunk,  covered 
her  face  with  her  arms  and  sobbed  aloud. 
The  elder  sister  stood  over  her,  and  pat 
ted  her  on  the  thin  shoulder  like  a  child, 
and  tried  to  comfort  her.  It  crossed  Mrs. 
Trimble's  mind  that  it  was  not  the  first  time 
one  had  wept  and  the  other  had  comforted. 
The  sad  scene  must  have  been  repeated 
many  times  in  that  long,  drear  winter. 
She  would  see  them  forever  after  in  her 
mind  as  fixed  as  a  picture,  and  her  own 
tears  fell  fast. 

"  You  did  n't  see  Mis'  Janes's  cunning 
little  boy,  the  next  one  to  the  baby,  did 
you  ? "  asked  Ann  Bray,  turning  round 
quickly  at  last,  and  going  cheerfully  on 
with  the  conversation.  "  Now,  hush,  Man- 
dy,  dear ;  they  '11  think  you  're  childish  ! 
He's  a  dear,  friendly  little  creatur',  an' 


THE   TOWN  POOR.  53 

likes  to  stay  with  us  a  good  deal,  though  we 
feel 's  if  it  't  was  too  cold  for  him,  now  we 
are  waitin'  to  get  us  more  wood." 

"  When  I  think  of  the  acres  o'  woodland 
in  this  town ! "  groaned  Rebecca  Wright. 
"  I  believe  I  'm  goin'  to  preach  next  Sun 
day,  'stead  o'  the  minister,  an'  I  '11  make 
the  sparks  fly.  I  Ve  always  heard  the  say 
ing,  '  What 's  everybody's  business  is  no 
body's  business,'  an'  I  Ve  come  to  believe 
it." 

"  Now,  don't  you,  'Becca.  You  've  hap 
pened  on  a  kind  of  a  poor  time  with  us,  but 
we  've  got  more  belongings  than  you  see 
here,  an'  a  good  large  cluset,  where  we  can 
store  those  things  there  ain't  room  to  have 
about.  You  an'  Miss  Trimble  have  hap 
pened  on  a  kind  of  poor  day,  you  know. 
Soon  's  I  git  me  some  stout  shoes  an'  rub 
bers,  as  Mandy  says,  I  can  fetch  home 
plenty  o'  little  dry  boughs  o'  pine  ;  you  re 
member  I  was  always  a  great  hand  to  roam  in 
the  woods  ?  If  we  could  only  have  a  front 
room,  so  't  we  could  look  out  on  the  road  an' 
see  passin',  an'  was  shod  for  meetiii',  I  don' 
know 's  we  should  complain.  Now  we  're  just 
goin'  to  give  you  what  we've  got,  an'  make 
out  with  a  good  welcome.  We  make  more 


54  THE  TOWN  POOR. 

tea  'n  we  want  in  the  mornin',  an'  then  let 
the  fire  go  down,  since  't  has  been  so  mild. 
We  've  got  a  good  cluset  "  (disappearing 
as  she  spoke),  "  an'  I  know  this  to  be  good 
tea,  'cause  it 's  some  o'  yourn,  Mis'  Trimble. 
An'  here 's  our  sprigged  chiny  cups  that 
R'becca  knows  by  sight,  if  Mis'  Trimble 
don't.  We  kep'  out  four  of  'em,  an'  put 
the  even  half  dozen  with  the  rest  of  the  auc 
tion  stuff.  I  've  often  wondered  who  'd  got 
'em,  but  I  never  asked,  for  fear  't  would  be 
somebody  that  would  distress  us.  They  was 
mother's,  you  know." 

The  four  cups  were  poured,  and  the  lit 
tle  table  pushed  to  the  bed,  where  Rebecca 
Wright  still  sat,  and  Mandana,  wiping  her 
eyes,  came  and  joined  her.  Mrs.  Trimble 
sat  in  her  chair  at  the  end,  and  Ann  trotted 
about  the  room  in  pleased  content  for  a  while, 
and  in  and  out  of  the  closet,  as  if  she  still 
had  much  to  do ;  then  she  came  and  stood 
opposite  Mrs.  Trimble.  She  was  very  short 
and  small,  and  there  was  no  painful  sense 
of  her  being  obliged  to  stand.  The  four  cups 
were  not  quite  full  of  cold  tea,  but  there  was 
a  clean  old  tablecloth  folded  double,  and  a 
plate  with  three  pairs  of  crackers  neatly 
piled,  and  a  small  —  it  must  be  owned,  a 


THE   TOWN  POOR.  55 

very  small  —  piece  of  hard  white  cheese. 
Then,  for  a  treat,  in  a  glass  dish,  there  was 
a  little  preserved  peach,  the  last  —  Miss  Re 
becca  knew  it  instinctively  —  of  the  house 
hold  stores  brought  from  their  old  home.  It 
was  very  sugary,  this  bit  of  peach ;  and  as 
she  helped  her  guests  and  sister  Mandy, 
Miss  Ann  Bray  said,  half  unconsciously,  as 
she  often  had  said  with  less  reason  in  the 
old  days,  "  Our  preserves  ain't  so  good  as 
usual  this  year ;  this  is  beginning  to  candy." 
Both  the  guests  protested,  while  Rebecca 
added  that  the  taste  of  it  carried  her  back, 
and  made  her  feel  young  again.  The  Brays 
had  always  managed  to  keep  one  or  two 
peach-trees  alive  in  their  corner  of  a  gar 
den.  "  I  've  been  keeping  this  preserve  for  a 
treat,"  said  her  friend.  "  I  'in  glad  to  have 
you  eat  some,  'Becca.  Last  summer  I  often 
wished  you  was  home  an'  could  come  an'  see 
us,  'stead  o'  being  away  off  to  Plainfields." 

The  crackers  did  not  taste  too  dry.  Miss 
Ann  took  the  last  of  the  peach  on  her  own 
cracker ;  there  could  not  have  been  quite  a 
small  spoonful,  after  the  others  were  helped, 
but  she  asked  them  first  if  they  would  not 
have  some  more.  Then  there  was  a  silence, 
and  in  the  silence  a  wave  of  tender  feeling 


56  THE  TOWN  POOR. 

rose  high  in  the  hearts  of  the  four  elderly 
women.  At  this  moment  the  setting  sun 
flooded  the  poor  plain  room  with  light ;  the 
unpainted  wood  was  all  of  a  golden-brown, 
and  Ann  Bray,  with  her  gray  hair  and 
aged  face,  stood  at  the  head  of  the  table  in  a 
kind  of  aureole.  Mrs.  Trimble's  face  was  all 
aquiver  as  she  looked  at  her ;  she  thought  of 
the  text  about  two  or  three  being  gathered 
together,  and  was  half  afraid. 

"  I  believe  we  ought  to  've  asked  Mis' 
Janes  if  she  would  n't  come  up,"  said  Ann. 
"  She 's  real  good  feelin',  but  she  's  had  it 
very  hard,  an'  gits  discouraged.  I  can't  find 
that  she  's  ever  had  anything  real  pleasant 
to  look  back  to,  as  we  have.  There,  next 
time  we  '11  make  a  good  hearten  in'  time  for 
her  too." 

The  sorrel  horse  had  taken  a  long  nap  by 
the  gnawed  fence-rail,  and  the  cool  air  after 
sundown  made  him  impatient  to  be  gone. 
The  two  friends  jolted  homeward  in  the 
gathering  darkness,  through  the  stiffening 
mud,  and  neither  Mrs.  Trimble  nor  Rebecca 
Wright  said  a  word  until  they  were  out  of 
sight  as  well  as  out  of  sound  of  the  Janes 
house.  Time  must  elapse  before  they  could 


THE   TOWN  POOR.  57 

reach  a  more  familiar  part  of  the  road  and 
resume  conversation  on  its  natural  level. 

"  I  consider  myself  to  blame,"  insisted 
Mrs.  Trimble  at  last.  "  I  have  n't  no  words 
of  accusation  for  nobody  else,  an'  I  ain't 
one  to  take  comfort  in  calling  names  to  the 
board  o'  selectmen.  I  make  no  reproaches, 
an'  I  take  it  all  on  my  own  shoulders  ;  but 
I  'm  goin'  to  stir  about  me,  I  tell  you !  I 
shall  begin  early  to-morrow.  They  're  goin* 
back  to  their  own  house,  —  it 's  been  stand- 
in'  empty  all  winter,  —  an'  the  town 's  goin' 
to  give  'em  the  rent  an'  what  firewood  they 
need  ;  it  won't  come  to  more  than  the  board 's 
payin'  out  now.  An'  you  an'  me  '11  take  this 
same  horse  an'  wagon,  an'  ride  an'  go  afoot 
by  turns,  an'  git  means  enough  together  to 
buy  back  their  furniture  an'  whatever  was 
sold  at  that  plaguey  auction  ;  an'  then  we  '11 
put  it  all  back,  an'  tell  'em  they  've  got  to 
move  to  a  new  place,  an'  just  carry  'em  right 
back  again  where  they  come  from.  An' 
don't  you  never  tell,  R'becca,  but  here  I  be 
a  widow  woman,  layin'  up  what  I  make  from 
my  farm  for  nobody  knows  who,  an'  I'm 
goin'  to  do  for  them  Bray  girls  all  I  'm  a 
mind  to.  I  should  be  sca't  to  wake  up  in 
heaven,  an'  hear  anybody  there  ask  how  the 


58  THE   TOWN  POOR. 

Bray  girls  was.  Don't  talk  to  me  about  the 
town  o'  Hampden,  an'  don't  ever  let  me  hear 
the  name  o'  town  poor !  I  'm  ashamed  to  go 
home  an'  see  what 's  set  out  for  supper.  I 
wish  I  'd  brought  'em  right  along." 

"  I  was  goin'  to  ask  if  we  could  n't  git  the 
new  doctor  to  go  up  an'  do  somethin'  for 
poor  Ann's  arm,"  said  Mies  Rebecca.  "  They 
say  he  's  very  smart.  If  she  could  get  so 's 
to  braid  straw  or  hook  rugs  again,  she  'd 
soon  be  earnin'  a  little  somethin'.  An'  may 
be  he  could  do  somethin'  for  Mandy's  eyes. 
They  did  use  to  live  so  neat  an'  ladylike. 
Somehow  I  could  n't  speak  to  tell  'em  there 
that  't  was  I  bought  them  six  best  cups  an' 
saucers,  time  of  the  auction  ;  they  went  very 
low,  as  everything  else  did,  an'  I  thought  I 
could  save  it  some  other  way.  They  shall 
have  'em  back  an'  welcome.  You're  real 
whole-hearted,  Mis'  Trimble.  I  expect 
Ann '11  be  sayin'  that  her  father's  child'n 
wa'n't  goin'  to  be  left  desolate,  an'  that  all 
the  bread  he  cast  on  the  water  's  comin'  back 
through  you." 

"  I  don't  care  what  she  says,  dear  crea- 
tur' !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Trimble.  "  I  'm  full 
o'  regrets  I  took  time  for  that  installation, 
an'  set  there  seepin'  in  a  lot  o'  talk  this  whole 


THE   TOWN  POOR.  59 

day  long,  except  for  its  kind  of  bringin'  us 
to  the  Bray  girls.  I  wish  to  my  heart  't  was 
to-morrow  mornin'  a'ready,  an'  I  a-startin' 
for  the  selec'rae/i." 


THE   QUEST   OF   MR.   TEABY. 

THE  trees  were  bare  on  meadow  and  hill, 
and  all  about  the  country  one  saw  the  warm 
brown  of  lately  fallen  leaves.  There  was 
still  a  cheerful  bravery  of  green  in  sheltered 
places,  —  a  fine,  live  green  that  flattered 
the  eye  with  its  look  of  permanence  ;  the 
first  three  quarters  of  the  year  seemed  to 
have  worked  out  their  slow  processes  to 
make  this  perfect  late-autumn  day.  In  such 
weather  I  found  even  the  East  Wilby  rail 
road  station  attractive,  and  waiting  three 
hours  for  a  slow  train  became  a  pleasure ; 
the  delight  of  idleness  and  even  booklessness 
cannot  be  properly  described. 

The  interior  of  the  station  was  bleak  and 
gravelly,  but  it  would  have  been  possible  to 
find  fault  with  any  interior  on  such  an  out- 
of-doors  day  ;  and  after  the  station-master 
had  locked  his  ticket-office  door  and  tried 
the  handle  twice,  with  a  comprehensive  look 
at  me,  he  went  slowly  away  up  the  road  to 
spend  some  leisure  time  with  his  family. 


THE   QUEST  OF  MR.  TEABY.  61 

He  had  ceased  to  take  any  interest  in  the 
traveling  public,  and  answered  my  ques 
tions  as  briefly  as  possible.  After  he  had 
gone  some  distance  he  turned  to  look  back, 
but  finding  that  I  still  sat  on  the  baggage 
truck  in  the  sunshine,  just  where  he  left  me, 
he  smothered  his  natural  apprehensions,  and 
went  on. 

One  might  spend  a  good  half  hour  in  watch 
ing  crows  as  they  go  southward  resolutely 
through  the  clear  sky,  and  then  waver  and 
come  straggling  back  as  if  they  had  for 
gotten  something ;  one  might  think  over  all 
one's  immediate  affairs,  and  learn  to  know 
the  outward  aspect  of  such  a  place  as  East 
Wilby  as  if  born  and  brought  up  there. 
But  after  a  while  I  lost  interest  in  both  past 
and  future ;  there  was  too  much  landscape 
before  me  at  the  moment,  and  a  lack  of  fig 
ures.  The  weather  was  not  to  be  enjoyed 
merely  as  an  end,  yet  there  was  no  temptation 
to  explore  the  up-hill  road  on  the  left,  or  the 
level  fields  on  the  right ;  I  sat  still  on  my 
baggage  truck  and  waited  for  something  to 
happen.  Sometimes  one  is  so  happy  that 
there  is  nothing  left  to  wish  for  but  to  be 
happier,  and  just  as  the  remembrance  of 
this  truth  illuminated  my  mind,  I  saw  two 


62  THE   QUEST  OF  MR.    TEABY. 

persons  approaching  from  opposite  direc 
tions.  The  first  to  arrive  was  a  pleasant- 
looking  elderly  countrywoman,  well  wrapped 
in  a  worn  winter  cloak  with  a  thick  plaid 
shawl  over  it,  and  a  white  worsted  cloud  tied 
over  her  bonnet.  She  carried  a  well-pre 
served  bandbox,  —  the  outlines  were  perfect 
under  its  checked  gingham  cover,  —  and  had 
a  large  bundle  beside,  securely  rolled  in  a 
newspaper.  From  her  dress  I  felt  sure  that 
she  had  made  a  mistake  in  dates,  and  ex 
pected  winter  to  set  in  at  once.  Her  face 
was  crimson  with  undue  warmth,  and  what 
appeared  in  the  end  to  have  been  unneces 
sary  haste.  She  did  not  take  any  notice 
of  the  elderly  man  who  reached  the  platform 
a  minute  later,  until  they  were  near  enough 
to  take  each  other  by  the  hand  and  exchange 
most  cordial  greetings. 

"  Well,  this  is  a  treat ! "  said  the  man, 
who  was  a  small  and  shivery-looking  person. 
He  carried  a  great  umbrella  and  a  thin, 
enameled-cloth  valise,  and  wore  an  ancient 
little  silk  hat  and  a  nearly  new  greenish 
linen  duster,  as  if  it  were  yet  summer.  "  I 
was  full  o'  thinkin'  o'  you  day  before  yister- 
day ;  strange,  wa'n't  it  ?  "  he  announced 
impressively,  in  a  plaintive  voice.  "  I  was 


THE   QUEST   OF  MR.    TEABY.  63 

sayin'  to  myself,  if  there  was  one  livin'  bein' 
I  coveted  to  encounter  over  East  Wilby 
way,  't  was  you,  Sister  Pinkliani." 

"  Warm  to-day,  ain't  it  ?  "  responded  Sis 
ter  Pinkham.  "  How  's  your  health,  Mr. 
Teaby  ?  I  guess  I  'd  better  set  right  down 
here  on  the  aidge  of  the  platform  ;  sha'n't 
we  git  more  air  than  if  we  went  inside  the 
depot  ?  It 's  necessary  to  git  my  breath  be 
fore  1  rise  the  hill." 

"You  can't  seem  to  account  for  them 
foresights,"  continued  Mr.  Teaby,  putting 
down  his  tall,  thin  valise  and  letting  the 
empty  top  of  it  fold  over.  Then  he  stood 
his  umbrella  against  the  end  of  my  baggage 
truck,  without  a  glance  at  me.  I  was  glad 
that  they  were  not  finding  me  in  their  way. 
"  Well,  if  this  ain't  very  sing'lar,  I  never 
saw  iiothin'  that  was,"  repeated  the  little 
man.  "Nobody  can  set  forth  to  explain 
why  the  thought  of  you  should  have  been  so 
borne  in  upon  me  day  before  yisterday,  your 
livin'  countenance  an'  all,  an'  here  we  be  to 
day  settin'  side  o'  one  another.  I  've  come 
to  rely  on  them  foresights  ;  they  've  been  of 
consider'ble  use  in  my  business,  too." 

"  Trade  good  as  common  this  fall  ?  "  in 
quired  Sister  Pinkham  languidly.  "  You 


64  THE   QUEST   OF  MR.    TEABY. 

don't  carry  such  a  thing  as  a  good  palm-leaf 
fan  amon'st  your  stuff,  I  expect?  It  does 
appear  to  me  as  if  I  had  n't  been  more  het 
up  any  day  this  year." 

"  I  should  ha'  had  the  observation  to  of 
fer  it  before,"  said  Mr.  Teaby,  with  pride. 
"  Yes,  Sister  Pinkham,  I  've  got  an  excel 
lent  fan  right  here,  an'  you  shall  have  it." 

He  reached  for  his  bag ;  I  heard  a  clink, 
as  if  there  were  bottles  within.  Presently 
his  companion  began  to  fan  herself  with  that 
steady  sway  and  lop  of  the  palm-leaf  which 
one  sees  only  in  country  churches  in  mid 
summer  weather.  Mr.  Teaby  edged  away 
a  little,  as  if  he  feared  such  a  steady  trade- 
wind. 

"  We  might  ha'  picked  out  a  shadier  spot, 
on  your  account,"  he  suggested.  "Can't 
you  unpin  your  shawl?" 

"  Not  while  I  'm  so  het,"  answered  Sister 
Pinkham  coldly.  "  Is  there  anything  new 
recommended  for  rheumatic  complaints  ?  " 

"  They  're  gittin'  up  new  compounds  right 
straight  along,  and  sends  sights  o'  printed 
bills  urgin'  of  me  to  buy  'em.  I  don't  be 
seech  none  o'  my  customers  to  take  them 
strange  nostrums  that  I  ain't  able  to  recom 
mend." 


THE    QUEST   OF  MR.    TEABY.  65 

"  Some  is  new  cotches  made  o'  the  good 
old  stand-bys,  I  expect,"  said  Sister  Pink- 
ham,  and  there  was  a  comfortable  silence 
of  some  minutes. 

"  I  'm  kind  of  surprised  to  meet  with  you 
to-day,  when  all 's  said  an'  done  ;  it  kind 
of  started  me  when  I  see  'twas  you,  after 
dwellin*  on  you  so  day  before  yisterday," 
insisted  Mr.  Teaby ;  and  this  time  Sister 
Pinkham  took  heed  of  the  interesting  coin 
cidence. 

"  Thinkin'  o*  me,  was  you  ? "  and  she 
stopped  the  fan  a  moment,  and  turned  to 
look  at  him  with  interest. 

"  I  was  so.  Well,  I  never  see  nobody 
that  kep'  her  looks  as  you  do,  and  be'n  a 
sufferer  too,  as  one  may  express  it." 

Sister  Pinkham  sighed  heavily,  and  be 
gan  to  ply  the  fan  again.  "  You  was  sayin' 
just  now  that  you  found  them  foresight  no 
tions  work  into  your  business." 

"  Yes  'm  ;  I  saved  a  valu'ble  life  this  last 
spring.  I  was  puttin'  up  my  vials  to  start 
out  over  Briggsville  way,  an'  't  was  im 
pressed  upon  me  that  I  'd  better  carry  a  por 
tion  o'  opodildack.  I  was  loaded  up  heavy, 
had  all  I  could  lug  of  spring  goods ;  salts 
an'  seny,  and  them  big-bottle  spring  bitters 


66  THE   QU£tiT  OF  MR.    TEABY. 

o'  mine  tliat  folks  counts  on  regular.  I 
could  n't  git  the  opodildack  out  o'  my  mind 
noway,  and  I  did  n't  want  it  for  notliin'  nor 
nobody,  but  I  had  to  remove  a  needed  vial 
o'  some  kind  of  essence  to  give  it  place. 
"When  I  was  goin'  down  the  lane  t' wards 
Abel  Dean's  house,  his  women  folks  come 
flyin'  out.  '  Child  's  a-dyin'  in  here,'  says 
they  ;  '  tumbled  down  the  sullar  stairs/ 
They  was  like  crazy  creator's  ;  I  give  'em 
the  vial  right  there  in  the  lane,  an'  they 
run  in  an'  I  followed  'em.  Last  time  I  was 
there  the  child  was  a-playin'  out;  looked 
rugged  and  hearty.  They  've  never  forgot 
it  an'  never  will,"  said  Mr.  Teaby  impres 
sively,  with  a  pensive  look  toward  the  hori 
zon.  "  Want  me  to  stop  over  night  with 
'em  any  time,  or  come  an'  take  the  hoss,  or 
anything.  Mis'  Dean,  she  buys  four  times 
the  essences  an'  stuff  she  wants  ;  kind  o' 
gratified,  you  see,  an'  did  n't  want  to  lose 
the  child,  I  expect,  though  she  's  got  a  num 
ber  o'  others.  If  it  hadn't  be'n  for  its 
bein'  so  impressed  on  my  mind,  I  should 
have  omitted  that  opodildack.  I  deem  it  a 
winter  remedy,  chiefly." 

"  Perhaps  the  young  one  would  ha'  come 
to   without   none  ;    they    do     survive    right 


THE   QUEST   OF  MR.    TEABY.  67 

through  everything,  an'  then  again  they  seem 
to  be  taken  away  right  in  their  tracks." 
Sister  Pinkham  grew  more  talkative  as  she 
cooled.  "Heard  any  news  as  you  come 
along?" 

"  Some,"  vaguely  responded  Mr.  Teaby. 
"  Folks  ginerally  relates  anythin'  that 's  oc 
curred  since  they  see  me  before.  I  ain't  no 
great  hand  for  news,  an'  never  was." 

"  Pity  'bout  you,  Uncle  Teaby !  There, 
anybody  don't  like  to  have  deaths  occur  an' 
them  things,  and  be  unawares  of  'em,  an' 
the  last  to  know  when  folks  calls  in."  Sis 
ter  Pinkham  laughed  at  first,  but  said  her 
say  with  spirit. 

"  Certain,  certain,  we  ought  all  of  us  to 
show  an  interest.  I  did  hear  it  reported 
that  Elder  Fry  calculates  to  give  up  preach- 
in'  an'  go  into  the  creamery  business  an 
other  spring.  You  know  he's  had  means 
left  him,  and  his  throat 's  kind  o'  give  out ; 
trouble  with  the  pipes.  I  called  it  brown 
caters,  an'  explained  nigh  as  I  could  without 
hurtin'  of  his  pride  that  he  'd  bawled  more  'n 
any  pipes  could  stand.  I  git  so  wore  out 
settin'  under  him  that  I  feel  to  go  an'  lay 
right  out  in  the  woods  arterwards,  where 
it 's  still.  'T  won't  never  do  for  him  to  deal 


68  THE  QUEST   OF  MR.    TEABY. 

so  with  callin'  of  his  cows ;  they  'd  be  so 
aggravated  't  would  be  more  'n  any  butter 
business  could  bear." 

"  You  had  n't  ought  to  speak  so  light  now ; 
he  's  a  very  feelin'  man  towards  any  one 
in  trouble,"  Sister  Pinkham  rebuked  the 
speaker.  "  I  set  considerable  by  Elder  Fry. 
You  sort  o'  divert  yourself  dallying  round 
the  country  with  your  essences  and  remedies, 
an'  you  ain't  never  sagged  down  with  no  set 
tled  grievance,  as  most  do.  Think  o'  what 
the  Elder  's  be'n  through,  a-losin'  o'  three 
good  wives.  I  'm  one  o'  them  that  ain't 
found  life  come  none  too  easy,  an5  Elder 
Fry's  preachin'  stayed  my  mind  consider'- 
ble." 

"  I  s'pose  you  're  right,  if  you  think  you 
be,"  acknowledged  the  little  man  humbly. 
"I  can't  say  as  I  esteem  myself  so  fortu 
nate  as  most.  I  'm  a  lonesome  creatur',  an' 
always  was;  you  know  I  be.  I  did  expect 
somebody  'd  engage  my  affections  before 
this." 

"There,  plenty 'd  be  glad  to  have  ye." 

"  I  expect  they  would,  but  I  don't  seem 
to  be  drawed  to  none  on  'em,"  replied  Mr. 
Teaby,  with  a  mournful  shake  of  his  head. 
"  I  've  spoke  pretty  decided  to  quite  a  nun> 


THE    QUEST   OF  MR.    TEABY.  69 

her  in  my  time,  take  'em  all  together,  but  it 
always  appeared  best  not  to  follow  it  up; 
an'  so  when  I  'd  come  their  way  again  I  'd 
laugh  it  off  or  somethin',  in  case  't  was  re 
ferred  to.  I  see  one  now  an'  then  that  I 
kind  o'  fancy,  but  't  ain't  the  real  thing." 

"  You  must  n't  expect  to  pick  out  a  hand 
some  gal,  at  your  age,"  insisted  Sister  Pink- 
ham,  in  a  business-like  way.  "  Time 's  past 
for  all  that,  an'  you  Ve  got  the  name  of  a 
rover.  I  've  heard  some  say  that  you  was 
rich,  but  that  ain't  everythin'.  You  must 
take  who  you  can  git,  and  look  you  up  a 
good  home ;  I  would.  If  you  was  to  be 
taken  down  with  any  settled  complaint, 
you  'd  be  distressed  to  be  without  a  place  o' 
your  own,  an'  I  'm  glad  to  have  this  chance 
to  tell  ye  so.  Plenty  o'  folks  is  glad  to  take 
you  in  for  a  short  spell,  an'  you  've  had  an 
excellent  chance  to  look  the  ground  over 
well.  I  tell  you  you're  beginnin'  to  git 
along  in  years." 

"I  know  I  be,"  said  Mr.  Teaby.  "I 
can't  travel  now  as  I  used  to.  I  have  to  fa 
vor  my  left  leg,  I  do'  know  but  I  be  spoilt 
for  settlin'  down.  This  business  I  never 
meant  to  follow  stiddy,  in  the  fust  place; 
?t  was  a  means  to  an  end,  as  one  may  say." 


70  THE   QUEST  OF  MR.   TEABY. 

"Folks  would  miss  ye,  but  you  could 
take  a  good  long  trip,  say  spring  an'  fall, 
an'  live  quiet  the  rest  of  the  year.  What 
if  they  do  git  out  o'  essence  o'  lemon  an' 
pep'mint !  There  's  sufficient  to  the  stores  ; 
't  ain't  as  't  used  to  be  when  you  begun." 

"  There 's  Ann  Maria  Hart,  my  oldest 
sister's  daughter.  I  kind  of  call  it  home 
with  her  by  spells  and  when  the  travelin'  's 
bad." 

"  Good  King  Agrippy  !  if  that 's  the  best 
you  can  do,  I  feel  for  you,"  exclaimed  the 
energetic  adviser.  "  She  's  a  harmless  crea- 
tur'  and  seems  to  keep  ploddin',  but  slack 
ain't  no  description,  an'  runs  on  talkin' 
about  nothin'  till  it  strikes  right  in  an' 
numbs  ye.  She  's  pressed  for  house  room, 
too.  Hart  ought  to  put  on  an  addition  long 
ago,  but  he  's  too  stingy  to  live.  Folks  was 
tellin'  me  that  somebody  observed  to  him  how 
he  'd  got  a  real  good,  stiddy  man  to  work 
with  him  this  summer.  '  He  's  called  a 
very  pious  man,  too,  great  hand  in  meetin's, 
Mr.  Hart,'  says  they ;  an'  says  he, '  I  'd  have 
you  rec'lect  he  's  a-prayin'  out  o'  my  time  !  ' 
Said  it  hasty,  too,  as  if  he  meant  it." 

"Well,  I  can  put  up  with  Hart;  he's 
near,  but  he  uses  me  well,  an'  I  try  to  do 


THE   QUEST  OF  MR.    TEABY.  71 

the  same  by  him.  I  (don't  bange  on  'em  ;  I 
pay  my  way,  an'  I  feel  as  if  everything  was 
temp'rary.  I  did  plan  to  go  way  over  North 
Dexter  way,  where  I  've  never  be'n,  an'  see 
if  there  wa'n't  somebody,  but  the  weather 
ain't  be'n  settled  as  I  could  wish.  I  'm  al 
ways  expectin'  to  find  her,  I  be  so,"  —  at 
which  I  observed  Sister  Pinkham's  frame 
shake. 

I  felt  a  slight  reproach  of  conscience  at 
listening  so  intently  to  these  entirely  private 
affairs,  and  at  this  point  reluctantly  left  my 
place  and  walked  along  the  platform,  to  re 
mind  Sister  Pinkham  and  confiding  Mr. 
Teaby  of  my  neighborhood.  They  gave  no 
sign  that  there  was  any  objection  to  the 
presence  of  a  stranger,  and  so  I  came  back 
gladly  to  the  baggage  truck,  and  we  all  kept 
silence  for  a  little  while.  A  fine  flavor  of 
extracts  was  wafted  from  the  valise  to  where 
I  sat.  I  pictured  to  myself  the  solitary  and 
hopeful  wanderings  of  Mr.  Teaby.  There 
was  an  air  about  him  of  some  distinction ; 
he  might  have  been  a  decayed  member  of 
the  medical  profession.  I  observed  that  his 
hands  were  unhardened  by  any  sort  of  rural 
work,  and  he  sat  there  a  meek  and  appeal 
ing  figure,  with  his  antique  hat  and  linen 


72  THE  QUEST  OF  MR.    TEABY. 

duster,  beside  the  well-wadded  round  shoul 
ders  of  friendly  Sister  Pinkham.  The  ex 
pression  of  their  backs  was  most  interesting. 

"  You  might  express  it  that  I  've  got  quite 
a  number  o'  good  homes  ;  I  've  got  me  sorted 
out  a  few  regular  places  where  I  mostly 
stop,"  Mr.  Teaby  explained  presently.  "  I 
like  to  visit  with  the  old  folks  an'  speak  o' 
the  past  together ;  an'  the  boys  an'  gals, 
they  always  have  some  kind  o'  fun  goin'  on 
when  I  git  along.  They  always  have  to  git 
me  out  to  the  barn  an'  tell  me,  if  they  're 
a-courtin',  and  I  fetch  an'  carry  for  'em  in 
that  case,  an'  help  out  all  I  can.  I  've  made 
peace  when  they  got  into  some  o'  their  mis- 
understandin's,  an'  them  times  they  set  a 
good  deal  by  Uncle  Teaby ;  but  they  ain't 
all  got  along  as  well  as  they  expected,  and 
that's  be'n  one  thing  that's  made  me  de 
sirous  not  to  git  fooled  myself.  But  I  do' 
know  as  folks  would  be  reconciled  to  my 
settlin'  down  in  one  place.  I  've  gathered  a 
good  many  extry  receipts  for  things,  an'  folks 
all  calls  me  some  thin'  of  a  doctor  ;  you  know 
my  grand'ther  was  one,  on  my  mother's 
side." 

"  Well,  you  've  had  my  counsel  for  what 
't  is  wuth,"  said  the  woman,  not  unkindly. 


THE   QUEST   OF  MR.    TEABY.  73 

"  Trouble  is,  you  want  better  bread  than  's 
made  o'  wheat." 

"  I  'm  'most  ashamed  to  ask  ye  again  if 
't  would  be  any  use  to  lay  the  matter  before 
Hannah  Jane  Pinkham  ?  "  This  was  spoken 
lower,  but  I  could  hear  the  gentle  sugges 
tion. 

"  I  'm  obleeged  to  you"  said  the  lady  of 
Mr.  Teaby's  choice,  "  but  I  ain't  the  right 
one.  Don't  you  go  to  settin'  your  mind  on 
me  :  't  ain't  wuth  while.  I  'm  older  than 
you  be,  an'  apt  to  break  down  with  my 
rheumatic  complaints.  You  don't  want  no 
body  on  your  hands.  I  'd  git  a  younger 
woman,  I  would  so." 

"  I  've  be'n  a-lookin'  for  the  right  one  a 
sight  o'  years,  Hannah  Jane.  I  've  had  a 
kind  o'  notion  I  should  know  her  right  off 
when  I  fust  see  her,  but  I'm  af eared  it 
ain't  goin'  to  be  that  way.  I  've  seen  a 
sight  o'  nice,  smart  women,  but  when  the 
thought  o'  you  was  so  impressed  on  my  mind 
day  before  yisterday  "  — 

"  I  'm  sorry  to  disobleege  you,  but  if  I 
have  anybody,  I'm  kind  o'  half  promised 
to  Elder  Fry,"  announced  Sister  Pinkham 
bravely.  "  I  consider  it  more  on  the  off  side 
than  I  did  at  first.  If  he  'd  continued  preach- 


74  THE   QUEST  OF  MR.   TEABY. 

in'  I  'd  favor  it  more,  but  I  dread  bavin'  to 
'tend  to  a  growin'  butter  business  an'  to 
sense  them  new  macbines.  'T  ain't  as  if  he  'd 
'stablished  it.  I've  just  begun  to  have 
things  easy ;  but  there,  I  feel  as  if  I  had  a 
lot  o'  work  left  in  me,  an'  I  don't  know 's 
'tis  right  to  let  it  go  to  waste.  I  expect 
the  Elder  would  preach  some,  by  spells,  an' 
we  could  ride  about  an'  see  folks ;  an'  he  'd 
always  be  called  to  funerals,  an'  have  some 
variety  one  way  an'  another.  I  urge  him 
not  to  quit  preachin'." 

"  I  'd  rather  he  ondertook  'most  any  thin' 
else,"  said  Mr.  Teaby,  rising  and  trying  to 
find  the  buttons  of  his  linen  duster." 

I  could  see  a  bitter  shade  of  jealousy 
cloud  his  amiable  face  ;  but  Sister  Pinkham 
looked  up  at  him  and  laughed.  "  Set  down, 
set  down,"  she  said.  "  We  ain't  in  no  great 
hurry  ;  "  and  Uncle  Teaby  relented,  and  lin 
gered.  "  I  'm  all  out  o'  rose-water  for  the 
eyes,"  she  told  him,  "  an'  if  you  've  got  a 
vial  o'  lemon  left  that  you  '11  part  with  rea 
sonable,  I  do'  know  but  I  '11  take  that.  I  'd 
rather  have  caught  you  when  you  was  out 
ward  bound  ;  your  bag  looks  kind  o'  slim." 

"Everythin'  's  fresh-made  just  before  I 
started,  'cept  the  ginger,  an'  that  I  buy,  but 
it  ?s  called  the  best  there  is." 


THE   QUEST  OF  MR.    TEABY.  75 

The  two  sat  down  and  drove  a  succession 
of  sharp  bargains,  but  finally  parted  the  best 
of  friends.  Mr.  Teaby  kindly  recognized 
my  presence  from  a  business  point  of  view, 
and  offered  me  a  choice  of  his  wares  at  rea 
sonable  prices.  I  asked  about  a  delightful 
jumping-jack  which  made  its  appearance, 
and  wished  very  much  to  become  the  owner, 
for  it  was  curiously  whittled  out  and  fitted 
together  by  Mr.  Teaby's  own  hands.  He 
exhibited  the  toy  to  Sister  Pinkliam  and  me, 
to  our  great  pleasure,  but  scorned  to  sell  such 
a  trifle,  it  being  worth  nothing  ;  and  beside, 
he  had  made  it  for  a  little  girl  who  lived  two 
miles  farther  along  the  road  he  was  follow 
ing.  I  could  see  that  she  was  a  favorite  of 
the  old  man's,  and  said  no  more  about  the 
matter,  but  provided '  myself,  as  recom 
mended,  with  an  ample  package  of  court- 
plaster,  "  in  case  of  accident  before  I  got  to 
where  I  was  going,"  and  a  small  bottle  of 
smelling-salts,  described  as  reviving  to  the 
faculties. 

Then  we  watched  Mr.  Teaby  plod  away, 
a  quaint  figure,  with  his  large  valise  nearly 
touching  the  ground  as  it  hung  slack  from 
his  right  hand.  The  greenish-brown  duster 
looked  bleak  and  unseasonable  as  a  cloud 


76  THE   QUEST  OF  MR.    TEABY. 

went  over  the  sun ;  it  appeared  to  symbol 
ize  the  youthful  and  spring-like  hopes  of  the 
wearer,  decking  the  autumn  days  of  life. 

"  Poor  creatur' !  "  said  Sister  Pinkham. 
"  There,  he  doos  need  somebody  to  look  af 
ter  him." 

She  turned  to  me  frankly,  and  I  asked 
how  far  he  was  going. 

uOh,  he'll  put  up  at  that  little  gal's 
house  an'  git  his  dinner,  and  give  her  the 
jumpin'-jack  an'  trade  a  little  ;  an'  then  he  '11 
work  along  the  road,  callin'  from  place  to 
place.  He  's  got  a  good  deal  o'  system,  an' 
was  a  smart  boy,  so  that  folks  expected  he 
was  goin'  to  make  a  doctor,  but  he  kind  o' 
petered  out.  He  's  long-winded  an'  harpin', 
an'  some  folks  prays  him  by  if  they  can ; 
but  there,  most  likes  him,  an'  there  's  no 
body  would  be  more  missed.  He  don't  make 
no  trouble  for  'em  ;  he  "11  take  right  holt  an' 
help,  and  there  ain't  nobody  more  gentle 
with  the  sick.  Always  has  some  o'  his  non 
sense  over  to  me." 

This  was  added  with  sudden  consciousness 
that  I  must  have  heard  the  recent  conversa 
tion,  but  we  only  smiled  at  each  other,  and 
good  Sister  Pinkham  did  not  seem  displeased. 
We  both  turned  to  look  again  at  the  small 


THE   QUEST  OF  MR.   TEABY.  77 

figure  of  Mr.  Teaby,  as  lie  went  away,  with 
his  queer,  tripping  gait,  along  the  level  road. 

"  Pretty  day,  if  't  wa'n't  quite  so  warm," 
said  Sister  Pinkham,  as  she  rose  and  reached 
for  her  bandbox  and  bundle,  to  resume  her 
own  journey.  "  There,  if  here  ain't  Uncle 
Teaby's  umbrilla !  He  forgits  everything 
that  belongs  to  him  but  that  old  valise. 
Folks  would  n't  know  him  if  he  left  that. 
You  may  as  well  just  hand  it  to  Asa  Briggs, 
the  depot-master,  when  he  gits  back.  Like  's 
not  the  old  gentleman  '11  think  to  call  for  it 
as  he  comes  back  along.  Here 's  his  fan,  too, 
but  he  won't  be  likely  to  want  that  this 
winter." 

She  looked  at  the  large  umbrella;  there 
was  a  great  deal  of  good  material  in  it,  but 
it  was  considerably  out  of  repair. 

"  I  don't  know  but  I  '11  stop  an'  mend  it 
up  for  him,  poor  old  creatur',"  she  said 
slowly,  with  an  apologetic  look  at  me.  Then 
she  sat  down  again,  pulled  a  large  rolled-up 
needlebook  from  her  deep  and  accessible 
pocket,  and  sewed  busily  for  some  time  with 
strong  stitches. 

I  sat  by  and  watched  her,  and  was  glad  to 
be  of  use  in  chasing  her  large  spool  of  linen 
thread,  which  repeatedly  rolled  away  along 


78  THE   QUEST  OF  MR.    TEABY. 

the  platform.  Sister  Pinkham's  affectionate 
thoughts  were  evidently  following  her  old 
friend. 

"  I  Ve  a  great  mind  to  walk  back  with  the 
umbrilla  ;  he  may  need  it,  an'  't  ain't  a  great 
ways,"  she  said  to  me,  and  then  looked  up 
quickly,  blushing  like  a  girl.  I  wished  she 
would,  for  my  part,  but  it  did  not  seem  best 
for  a  stranger  to  give  advice  in  such  serious 
business.  "  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  will  do," 
she  told  me  innocently,  a  moment  after 
wards.  "  I  '11  take  the  umbrilla  along  with 
me,  and  leave  word  with  Asa  Briggs  I  Ve 
got  .it.  I  go  right  by  his  house,  so  you 
need  n't  charge  your  mind  nothin'  about  it." 

By  the  time  she  had  taken  off  her  gold- 
bowed  spectacles  and  put  them  carefully 
away  and  was  ready  to  make  another  start, 
she  had  learned  where  I  came  from  and 
where  I  was  going  and  what  my  name  was, 
all  this  being  but  poor  return  for  what  I 
had  gleaned  of  the  history  of  herself  and 
Mr.  Teaby.  I  watched  Sister  Pinkham 
until  she  disappeared,  umbrella  in  hand,  over 
the  crest  of  a  hill  far  along  the  road  to  the 
eastward. 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  BOGANS. 
I. 

THE  old  beggar  women  of  Bantry  streets 
had  seldom  showered  their  blessings  upon 
a  departing  group  of  emigrants  with  such 
hearty  good  will  as  they  did  upon  Mike  Bo- 
gan  and  his  little  household  one  May  morn 
ing. 

Peggy  Muldoon,  she  of  the  game  leg  and 
green  -  patched  eye  and  limber  tongue, 
steadied  herself  well  back  against  the  bat 
tered  wall  at  the  street  corner  and  gave  her 
whole  energy  to  a  torrent  of  speech  unusual 
to  even  her  noble  powers.  She  would  not 
let  Mike  Bogan  go  to  America  unsaluted 
and  unblessed ;  she  meant  to  do  full  honor 
to  this  second  cousin,  once  removed,  on  the 
mother's  side. 

"  Yirra,  Mike  Bogan,  is  it  yerself  thin, 
goyn  away  bey  ant  the  says?"  she  began 
with  true  dramatic  fervor.  "  Let  poor  owld 
Peg  take  her  last  look  on  your  laughing  face 


80  THE  LUCK   OF  THE  BOGANS. 

me  darlin'.  She  '11  be  under  the  ground 
this  time  next  year,  God  give  her  grace,  and 
you  far  away  lavin'  to  strange  spades  the 
worruk  of  hapin'  the  sods  of  her  grave. 
Give  me  one  last  look  at  me  darlin'  lad  wid 
his  swate  Biddy  an'  the  shild.  Oh  that  I 
live  to  see  this  day !  " 

Peg's  companions,  old  Marget  Dunn  and 
Biddy  O'Hern  and  no-legged  Tom  Whinn, 
the  fragment  of  a  once  active  sailor  who 
propelled  himself  by  a  low  truckle  cart  and 
two  short  sticks  ;  these  interesting  members 
of  society  heard  the  shrill  note  of  their 
leader's  eloquence  and  suddenly  appeared 
like  beetles  out  of  unsuspected  crevices  near 
by.  The  side  car,  upon  which  Mike  Bogan 
and  his  wife  and  child  were  riding  from 
their  little  farm  outside  the  town  to  the 
place  of  departure,  was  stopped  at  the  side 
of  the  narrow  street.  A  lank  yellow-haired 
lad,  with  eyes  red  from  weeping  sat  swing 
ing  his  long  legs  from  the  car  side,  another 
car  followed,  heavily  laden  with  Mike's  sis 
ter's  family,  and  a  mourning  yet  envious 
group  of  acquaintances  footed  it  in  the  rear. 
It  was  an  excited,  picturesque  little  proces 
sion  ;  the  town  was  quickly  aware  of  its  pres 
ence,  and  windows  went  up  from  house  to 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  BOGANS.  81 

house,  and  heads  came  out  of  the  second 
and  third  stories  and  even  in  the  top  attics 
all  along  the  street.  The  air  was  thick  with 
blessings,  the  quiet  of  Bantry  was  perma 
nently  broken. 

"  Lard  bliss  us  and  save  us !  "  cried  Peggy, 
her  shrill  voice  piercing  the  chatter  and 
triumphantly  lifting  itself  in  audible  relief 
above  the  din,  —  "  Lard  bliss  us  an'  save 
us  for  the  flower  o'  Bantry  is  lavin'  us  this 
day.  Break  my  heart  wid  yer  goyn  will  ye 
Micky  Bogan  and  make  it  black  night  to 
the  one  eye  that's  left  in  me  gray  head  this 
fine  mornin'  o'  spring.  I  that  hushed  the 
mother  of  you  and  the  father  of  you  babies 
in  me  arms,  and  that  was  a  wake  old  woman 
followin'  and  crapin'  to  see  yerself  chris 
tened.  Oh  may  the  saints  be  good  to  you 
Micky  Bogan  and  Biddy  Flaherty  the  wife, 
and  forgive  you  the  sin  an'  shame  of  turn 
ing  yer  proud  backs  on  ould  Ireland. 
Ain't  there  pigs  and  praties  enough  for  ye 
in  poor  Bantry  town  that  her  crabbedest 
childer  must  lave  her.  Oh  wish  a  wisha,  I  '11 
see  your  face  no  more,  may  the  luck  o'  the 
Bogans  follow  you,  that  failed  none  o'  the 
Bogans  yet.  May  the  sun  shine  upon  you 
and  grow  two  heads  of  cabbage  in  the  same 


82  THE   LUCK   OF   THE  BOGAbS. 

sprout,  may  the  little  b'y  live  long  and  get 
him  a  good  wife,  and  if  she  ain't  good  to 
him  may  she  die  from  him.  May  every 
hair  on  both  your  heads  turn  into  a  blessed 
candle  to  light  your  ways  to  heaven,  but  not 
yit  me  darlin's  —  not  yit !  ' 

The  jaunting  car  had  been  surrounded  by 
this  time  and  Mike  and  his  wife  were  shaking 
hands  and  trying  to  respond  impartially  to 
the  friendly  farewells  and  blessings  of  their 
friends.  There  never  had  been  such  a 
leave-taking  in  Bantry.  Peggy  Muldoon 
felt  that  her  eloquence  was  in  danger  of  be 
ing  ignored  and  made  a  final  shrill  appeal. 
"  Who  '11  bury  me  now  ?  "  she  screamed 
with  a  long  wail  which  silenced  the  whole 
group ;  "  who  '11  lay  me  in  the  grave,  Micky 
bein'  gone  from  me  that  always  gave  me  the 
kind  word  and  the  pinny  or  trippence  ivery 
market  day,  and  the  wife  of  him  Biddy 
Flaherty  the  rose  of  Glengariff  ;  many 's  the 
fine  meal  she  's  put  before  old  Peggy  Mul 
doon  that  is  old  and  blind." 

"  Awh,  give  the  ould  sowl  a  pinny  now," 
said  a  sympathetic  voice,  "  't  will  bring  you 
luck,  more  power  to  you."  And  Mike  Bo- 
gan,  the  tears  streaming  down  his  honest 
cheeks,  plunged  deep  into  his  pocket  and 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  BOGANS.  88 

threw  the  old  beggar  a  broad  five-shilling 
piece.  It  was  a  monstrous  fortune  to 
Peggy-  Her  one  eye  glared  with  joy,  the 
jaunting  car  moved  away  while  she  fell  flat 
on  the  ground  in  apparent  excess  of  emo 
tion.  The  farewells  were  louder  for  a  min 
ute  —  then  they  were  stopped ;  the  excita 
ble  neighborhood  returned  to  its  business 
or  idleness  and  the  street  was  still.  Peggy 
rose  rubbing  an  elbow,  and  said  with  the 
air  of  a  queen  to  her  retinue,  "  Coom  away 
now  poor  crathurs,  so  we  '11  drink  long1  life 
to  him."  And  Marget  Dunn  and  Biddy 
O'Hern  and  no-legged  Tom  Whinn  with 
his  truckle  cart  disappeared  into  an  alley. 

"  What 's  all  this  whillalu  ?  "  asked  a  so 
ber-looking,  clerical  gentleman  who  came 
riding  by. 

"  'T  is  the  Bogans  going  to  Ameriky,  yer 
reverence,"  responded  Jim  Kalehan,  the 
shoemaker,  from  his  low  window.  "The 
folks  gived  them  their  wake  whilst  they 
were  here  to  enjoy  it  and  them  was  the 
keeners  that  was  goin'  hippety  with  lame 
legs  and  fine  joy  down  the  convanient  alley 
for  beer,  God  bless  the  poor  souls !  " 

Mike  Bogan  and  Biddy  his  wife  looked 
behind  them  again  and  again.  Mike 


84  THE  LUCK   OF  THE  BOGANS. 

blessed  himself  fervently  as  he  caught  a 
last  glimpse  of  the  old  church  on  the  hill 
where  he  was  christened  and  married, 
where  his  father  and  his  grandfather  had 
been  christened  and  married  and  buried. 
He  remembered  the  day  when  he  had  first 
seen  his  wife,  who  was  there  from  Glen- 
gariff  to  stay  with  her  old  aunt,  and  com 
ing  to  early  mass,  had  looked  to  him  like  a 
strange  sweet  flower  abloom  on  the  gray 
stone  pavement  where  she  knelt.  The  old 
church  had  long  stood  on  the  steep  height 
at  the  head  of  Bantry  street  and  watched 
and  waited  for  her  children.  He  would 
never  again  come  in  from  his  little  farm  in 
the  early  morning  —  he  never  again  would 
be  one  of  the  Bantry  men.  The  golden 
stories  of  life  in  America  turned  to  paltry 
tinsel,  and  a  love  and  pride  of  the  old  coun 
try,  never  forgotten  by  her  sons  and  daugh 
ters,  burned  with  fierce  flame  on  the  inmost 
altar  of  his  heart.  It  had  all  been  very 
easy  to  dream  fine  dreams  of  wealth  and 
landownership,  but  in  that  moment  the 
least  of  the  pink  daisies  that  were  just 
opening  on  the  roadside  was  dearer  to  the 
simple-hearted  emigrant  than  all  the  world 
beside. 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  BOGANS.  85 

*4  Lave  me  down  for  a  bit  of  sod,"  he 
commanded  the  wondering  young  driver, 
who  would  have  liked  above  all  things  to  sail 
for  the  new  world.  The  square  of  turf  from 
the  hedge  foot,  sparkling  with  dew  and  green 
with  shamrock  and  gay  with  tiny  flowers, 
was  carefully  wrapped  in  Mike's  best  Sun 
day  handkerchief  as  they  went  their  way. 
Biddy  had  covered  her  head  with  her  shawl 
—  it  was  she  who  had  made  the  plan  of 
going  to  America,  it  was  she  who  was  eager 
to  join  some  successful  members  of  her 
family  who  had  always  complained  at  home 
of  their  unjust  rent  and  the  difficulties  of 
the  crops.  Everybody  said  that  the  times 
were  going  to  be  harder  than  ever  that  sum 
mer,  and  she  was  quick  to  catch  at  the  in 
flammable  speeches  of  some  lawless  towns 
folk  who  were  never  satisfied  with  anything. 
As  for  Mike,  the  times  always  seemed  alike, 
he  did  not  grudge  hard  work  and  he  never 
found  fault  with  the  good  Irish  weather. 
His  nature  was  not  resentful,  he  only 
laughed  when  Biddy  assured  him  that  the 
gorse  would  soon  grow  in  the  thatch  of  his 
head  as  it  did  on  their  cabin  chimney.  It 
was  only  when  she  said  that,  in  America 
they  could  make  a  gentleman  of  baby  Dan, 


86  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  BOGANS. 

that  the  father 's  blue  eyes  glistened  and  a 
look  of  determination  came  into  his  face. 

"  God  grant  we  '11  come  back  to  it  some 
day,"  said  Mike  softly.  "  I  didn  't  know, 
faix  indeed,  how  sorry  I  'd  be  for  lavin'  the 
owld  place.  Awh  Biddy  girl  't  is  many  the 
weary  day  we  '11  think  of  the  home  we  've 
left,"  and  Biddy  removed  the  shawl  one  in 
stant  from  her  face  only  to  cover  it  again 
and  burst  into  a  new  shower  of  tears.  The 
next  day  but  one  they  were  sailing  away 
out  of  Queenstown  harbor  to  the  high  seas. 
Old  Ireland  was  blurring  its  green  and  pur 
ple  coasts  moment  by  moment ;  Kinsale 
lay  low,  and  they  had  lost  sight  of  the 
white  cabins  on  the  hillsides  and  the  pas 
tures  golden  with  furze.  Hours  before  the 
old  women  on  the  wharves  had  turned 
away  from  them  shaking  their  great  cap 
borders.  Hours  before  their  own  feet  had 
trodden  the  soil  of  Ireland  for  the  last  time. 
Mike  Bogan  and  Biddy  had  left  home,  they 
were  well  on  their  way  to  America.  Luck 
ily  nobody  had  been  with  them  at  last  to 
say  good-by  —  they  had  taken  a  more  or 
less  active  part  in  the  piteous  general  leave- 
taking  at  Queenstown,  but  those  were  not 
the  faces  of  their  own  mothers  or  brothers 


THE  LUCK    OF   THE  BOGANS.  87 

to  which  they  looked  back  as  the  ship  slid 
away  through  the  green  water. 

"  Well,  sure,  we  're  gone  now,"  said  Mike 
setting  his  face  westward  and  tramping  the 
steerage  deck.  "  I  like  the  say  too,  I  be- 
lave,  me  own  grandfather  was  a  sailor,  an' 
't  is  a  fine  life  for  a  man.  Here  's  little  Dan 
goin'  to  Ameriky  and  niver  mistrustin'. 
We  '11  be  sindin'  the  gossoon  back  again, 
rich  and  fine,  to  the  owld  place  by  and  by, 
'tis  thrue  for  us,  Biddy." 

But  Biddy,  like  many  another  woman, 
had  set  great  changes  in  motion  and  then 
longed  to  escape  from  their  consequences. 
She  was  much  discomposed  by  the  ship's 
unsteadiness.  She  accused  patient  Mike  of 
having  dragged  her  away  from  home  and 
friends.  She  grew  very  white  in  the  face, 
and  was  helped  to  her  hard  steerage  berth 
where  she  had  plenty  of  time  for  reflection 
upon  the  vicissitudes  of  seafaring.  As  for 
Mike,  he  grew  more  and  more  enthusiastic 
day  by  day  over  their  prospects  as  he  sat 
in  the  shelter  of  the  bulkhead  and  tended 
little  Dan  and  talked  with  his  companions 
as  they  sailed  westward. 

Who  of  us  have  made  enough  kindly  al 
lowance  for  the  homesick  quick-witted  am- 


88  THE   LUCK  OF  THE  EOGANS. 

bitious  Irish  men  and  women,  who  have 
landed  every  year  with  such  high  hopes  on 
our  shores.  There  are  some  of  a  worse  sort, 
of  whom  their  native  country  might  think 
itself  well  rid  —  but  what  thrifty  New  Eng 
land  housekeeper  who  takes  into  her  home 
one  of  the  pleasant-faced  little  captive  maids, 
from  Southern  Ireland,  has  half  understood 
the  change  of  surroundings.  That  was  a 
life  in  the  open  air  under  falling  showers 
and  warm  sunshine,  a  life  of  wit  and  humor, 
of  lavishness  and  lack  of  provision  for  more 
than  the  passing  day  —  of  constant  com 
panionship  with  one's  neighbors,  and  a 
cheerful  serenity  and  lack  of  nervous  an 
ticipation  born  of  the  vicinity  of  the  Gulf 
Stream.  The  climate  makes  the  character 
istics  of  Cork  and  Kerry ;  the  fierce  energy 
of  the  Celtic  race  in  America  is  forced  and 
stimulated  by  our  own  keen  air.  The 
beauty  of  Ireland  is  little  hinted  at  by  an 
average  orderly  New  England  town  —  many 
a  young  girl  and  many  a  blundering  sturdy 
fellow  is  heartsick  with  the  homesickness 
and  restraint  of  his  first  year  in  this  golden 
country  of  hard  work.  To  so  many  of  them 
a  house  has  been  but  a  shelter  for  the  night 
—  a  sleeping-place:  if  you  remember  that, 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  BOGANS.  89 

you  do  not  wonder  at  fumbling  fingers  or 
impatience  with  our  houses  full  of  trinkets. 
Our  needless  tangle  of  furnishing  bewilders 
those  who  still  think  the  flowers  that  grow 
of  themselves  in  the  Irish  thatch  more  beau 
tiful  than  anything  under  the  cover  of  our 
prosaic  shingled  roofs. 

"  Faix,  a  fellow  on  deck  was  telling  me  a 
nate  story  the  day,"  said  Mike  to  Biddy  Bo- 
gan,  by  way  of  kindly  amusement.  "  Says 
he  to  me,  '  Mike,'  says  he,  '  did  ye  ever  hear 
of  wan  Pathrick  O'Brien  that  heard  some 
bla'guard  tell  how  in  Ameriky  you  picked 
up  money  in  the  streets  ? '  4  No,'  says  I. 
4  He  wint  ashore  in  a  place,'  says  he,  '  and 
he  walked  along  and  he  come  to  a  sign  on 
a  wall.  Silver  Street  was  on  it.  "  I  'ont 
stap  here,"  says  he,  "  it  ain't  wort  my  while 
at  all,  at  all.  I  '11  go  on  to  Gold  Street," 
says  he,  but  he  walked  ever  since  and  he 
ain't  got  there  yet.'  ' 

Biddy  opened  her  eyes  and  laughed  fee 
bly.  Mike  looked  so  bronzed  and  ruddy 
and  above  all  so  happy,  that  she  took  heart. 
"  We  're  sound  and  young,  thanks  be  to 
God,  and  we  '11  earn  an  honest  living,"  said 
Mike,  proudly.  "  'T  is  the  childher  I  'm 


90  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  BOGANS. 

thinkin'  of  all  the  time,  an'  how  they  '11  get 
a  chance  the  best  of  us  niver  had  at  home. 
God  bless  old  Bantry  forever  in  spite  of  it. 
An'  there 's  a  smart  rid-headed  man  that  has 
every  bother  to  me  why  'ont  I  go  with  him 
and  keep  a  tidy  bar.  He  's  been  in  the 
same  business  this  four  year  gone  since  he 
come  out,  and  twenty  pince  in  his  pocket 
when  he  landed,  and  this  year  he  took  a 
month  off  and  went  over  to  see  the  ould 
folks  and  build  'em  a  dacint  house  intirely, 
and  hire  a  man  to  farm  wid  'em  now  the 
old  ones  is  old.  He  says  will  I  put  in  my 
money  wid  him,  an  he  '11  give  me  a  great 
start  I  would  n't  have  in  three  years  else." 

"  Did  you  have  the  fool's  head  on  you 
then  and  let  out  to  him  what  manes  you 
had  ?  "  whispered  Biddy,  fiercely  and  lift 
ing  herself  to  look  at  him. 

"  I  did  then ;  't  was  no  harm,"  answered 
the  unsuspecting  Mike. 

"  'T  was  a  black-hearted  rascal  won  the 
truth  from  you ! "  and  Biddy  roused  her 
waning  forces  and  that  very  afternoon  ap 
peared  on  deck.  The  red-headed  man  knew 
that  he  had  lost  the  day  when  he  caught  her 
first  scornful  glance. 

"  God  pity  the  old  folks  of  him  an'  their 


THE  LUCK   OF  THE  BOGANS.  91 

house,"  muttered  the  sharp-witted  wife  to 
Mike,  as  she  looked  at  the  low-lived  schem 
ing  fellow  whom  she  suspected  of  treachery. 
"  He  said  thim  was  old  clothes  he  was 
wearin'  on  the  sea,"  apologized  Mike  for  his 
friend,  looking  down  somewhat  consciously 
at  his  own  comfortable  corduroys.  He  and 
Biddy  had  been  well  to  do  on  their  little  farm, 
and  on  good  terms  with  their  landlord  the 
old  squire.  Poor  old  gentleman,  it  had  been 
a  sorrow  to  him  to  let  the  young  people  go. 
He  was  a  generous,  kindly  old  man,  but  he 
suffered  from  the  evil  repute  of  some  short 
sighted  neighbors.  "  If  I  gave  up  all  I  had 
in  the  world  and  went  to  the  almshouse  my 
self,  they  would  still  damn  me  for  a  land 
lord,"  he  said,  desperately  one  day.  "  But  I 
never  thought  Mike  Bogan  would  throw  up 
his  good  chances.  I  suppose  some  worthless 
fellow  called  him  stick-in-the-mud  and  off  he 
must  go." 

There  was  some  unhappiness  at  first  for 
the  young  people  in  America.  They  went 
about  the  streets  of  their  chosen  town  for  a 
day  or  two,  heavy-hearted  with  disappoint 
ment.  Their  old  neighbors  were  not  housed 
in  palaces  after  all,  as  the  letters  home  had 


92  THE  LUCK   OF  THE  BOGANS. 

suggested,  and  after  a  few  evenings  of  visit 
ing  and  giving  of  messages,  and  a  few  days 
of  aimless  straying  about,  Mike  and  Biddy 
hired  two  rooms  at  a  large  rent  up  three 
flights  of  stairs,  and  went  to  housekeeping. 
Litte  Dan  rolled  down  one  flight  the  first 
day;  no  more  tumbling  on  the  green  turf 
among  the  daisies  for  him,  poor  baby  boy. 
His  father  got  work  at  the  forge  of  a  car 
riage  shop,  having  served  a  few  months  with 
a  smith  at  home,  and  so  taking  rank  almost 
as  a  skilled  laborer.  He  was  a  great  favorite 
speedily,  his  pay  was  good,  at  least  it  would 
have  been  good  if  he  had  lived  on  the  old 
place  among  the  fields,  but  he  and  Biddy  did 
not  know  how  to  make  the  most  of  it  here, 
and  Dan  had  a  baby  sister  presently  to  keep 
him  company,  and  then  another  and  another, 
and  there  they  lived  up-stairs  in  the  heat,  in 
the  cold,  in  daisy  time  and  snow  time,  and 
Dan  was  put  to  school  and  came  home  with 
a  knowledge  of  sums  in  arithmetic  which  set 
his  father's  eyes  dancing  with  delight,  but 
with  a  knowledge  besides  of  foul  language 
and  a  brutal  way  of  treating  his  little  sisters 
when  nobody  was  looking  on. 

Mike  Bogan  was  young  and  strong  when 
he  came  to  America,  and  his  good  red  blood 


THE  LUCK   OF  THE  BOGANS.  93 

lasted  well,  but  it  was  against  his  nature  to 
work  in  a  hot  half-lighted  shop,  and  in  a 
very  few  years  he  began  to  look  pale  about 
the  mouth  and  shaky  in  the  shoulders,  and 
then  the  enthusiastic  promises  of  the  red 
headed  man  on  the  ship,  borne  out,  we  must 
allow,  by  Mike's  own  observation,  inclined 
him  and  his  hard  earned  capital  to  the  pur 
chase  of  a  tidy  looking  drinking  shop  on  a 
side  street  of  the  town.  The  owner  had  died 
and  his  widow  wished  to  go  West  to  live  with 
her  son.  She  knew  the  Bogans  and  was  a 
respectable  soul  in  her  way.  She  and  her 
husband  had  kept  a  quiet  place,  everybody 
acknowledged,  and  everybody  was  thankful 
that  since  drinking  shops  must  be  kept,  so 
decent  a  man  as  Mike  Bogan  was  taking  up 
the  business. 

II. 

The  luck  of  the  Bogans  proved  to  be 
holding  true  in  this  generation.  Their  pro 
verbial  good  fortune  seemed  to  come  rather 
from  an  absence  of  bad  fortune  than  any 
special  distinction  granted  the  generation  or 
two  before  Mike's  time.  The  good  fellow 
sometimes  reminded  himself  gratefully  of 
Peggy  Muldoon's  blessing,  and  once  sent  her 


94  THE  LUCK   OF  THE  BOGANS. 

a  pound  to  keep  Christmas  upon.  If  he  had 
only  known  it,  that  unworthy  woman  be 
stowed  curses  enough  upon  him  because  he 
did  not  repeat  it  the  next  year,  to  cancel  any 
favors  that  might  have  been  anticipated. 
Good  news  flew  back  to  Bantry  of  his  pros 
perity,  and  his  comfortable  home  above  the 
store  was  a  place  of  reception  and  generous 
assistance  to  all  the  westward  straying  chil 
dren  of  Bantry.  There  was  a  bit  of  garden 
that  belonged  to  the  estate,  the  fences  were 
trig  and  neat,  and  neither  Mike  nor  Biddy 
were  persons  to  let  things  look  shabby  while 
they  had  plenty  of  money  to  keep  them  clean 
and  whole.  It  was  Mike  who  walked  behind 
the  priest  on  Sundays  when  the  collection 
was  taken.  It  was  Mike  whom  good  Father 
Miles  trusted  more  than  any  other  member 
of  his  flock,  whom  he  confided  in  and  con 
sulted,  whom  perhaps  his  reverence  loved 
best  of  all  the  parish  because  they  were  both 
Bantry  men,  born  and  bred.  And  nobody 
but  Father  Miles  and  Biddy  and  Mike 
Bogan  knew  the  full  extent  of  the  father's 
and  mother's  pride  and  hope  in  the  clever 
ness  and  beauty  of  their  only  son.  Nothing 
was  too  great,  and  no  success  seemed  im 
possible  when  they  tried  to  picture  the  glo 
rious  career  of  little  Dan. 


THE  LUCK   OF  THE  BOGANS.  95 

Mike  was  a  kind  father  to  his  little 
daughters,  but  all  his  hope  was  for  Dan. 
It  was  for  Dan  that  he  was  pleased  when 
people  called  him  Mr.  Bogan  in  respectful 
tones,  and  when  he  was  given  a  minor  place 
of  trust  at  town  elections,  he  thought  with 
humble  gladness  that  Dan  would  have  less 
cause  to  be  ashamed  of  him  by  and  by  when 
he  took  his  own  place  as  gentleman  and 
scholar.  For  there  was  something  different 
about  Dan  from  the  rest  of  them,  plain  Irish 
folk  that  they  were.  Dan  was  his  father's 
idea  of  a  young  lord ;  he  would  have  liked  to 
show  the  boy  to  the  old  squire,  and  see  his 
look  of  surprise.  Money  came  in  at  the 
shop  door  in  a  steady  stream,  there  was 
plenty  of  it  put  away  in  the  bank  and  Dan 
must  wear  well-made  clothes  and  look  like 
the  best  fellows  at  the  school.  He  was 
handsomer  than  any  of  them,  he  was  the 
best  and  quickest  scholar  of  his  class.  The 
president  of  the  great  carriage  company  had 
said  that  he  was  a  very  promising  boy  more 
than  once,  and  had  put  his  hand  on  Mike's 
shoulder  as  he  spoke.  Mike  and  Biddy, 
dressed  in  their  best,  went  to  the  school  ex 
aminations  year  after  year  and  heard  their 
son  do  better  than  the  rest,  and  saw  him 


96  THE  LUCK   OF  THE  BO  CANS. 

noticed  and  admired.  For  Dan's  sake  no 
noisy  men  were  allowed  to  stay  about  the 
shop.  Dan  himself  was  forbidden  to  linger 
there,  and  so  far  the  boy  had  clear  honest 
eyes,  and  an  affectionate  way  with  his  father 
that  almost  broke  that  honest  heart  with 
joy.  They  talked  together  when  they  went 
to  walk  on  Sundays,  and  there  was  a  plan, 
increasingly  interesting  to  both,  of  going  to 
old  Baiitry  some  summer  —  just  for  a  treat. 
Oh  happy  days  !  They  must  end  as  summer 
days  do,  in  winter  weather. 

There  was  an  outside  stair  to  the  two  up 
per  stories  where  the  Bogans  lived  above 
their  place  of  business,  and  late  one  evening, 
when  the  shop  shutters  were  being  clasped 
together  below,  Biddy  Bogan  heard  a  famil 
iar  heavy  step  and  hastened  to  hold  her 
brightest  lamp  in  the  doorway. 

"God  save  you,"  said  his  reverence  Fa 
ther  Miles,  who  was  coming  up  slowly,  and 
Biddy  dropped  a  decent  courtesy  and  de 
vout  blessing  in  return.  His  reverence 
looked  pale  and  tired,  and  seated  himself 
wearily  in  a  chair  by  the  window  —  while 
Biddy  coasted  round  by  a  bedroom  door  to 
"whist"  at  two  wakeful  daughters  who 


THE    LUCK   OF  THE  BOGANS.  97 

were  teasing  each  other  and  chattering  in 
bed. 

"  'T  is  long  since  we  saw  you  here,  sir," 
she  said,  respectfully.  "  'Tis  warm  weather 
indade  for  you  to  be  about  the  town,  and 
folks  sick  an'  dyin'  and  needing  your  help, 
sir.  Mike '11  be  up  now,  your  reverence. 
I  hear  him  below." 

Biddy  had  grown  into  a  stout  mother  of 
a  family,  red-faced  and  bustling ;  there  was 
little  likeness  left  to  the  rose  of  Glengariff 
with  whom  Mike  had  fallen  in  love  at  early 
mass  in  Bantry  church.  But  the  change 
had  been  so  gradual  that  Mike  himself  had 
never  become  conscious  of  any  damaging 
difference.  She  took  a  fresh  loaf  of  bread 
and  cut  some  generous  slices  and  put  a  piece 
of  cheese  and  a  knife  on  the  table  within 
reach  of  Father  Miles's  hand.  "  I  suppose 
't  is  waste  of  time  to  give  you  more,  so  it  is," 
she  said  to  him.  "  Bread  an'  cheese  and  no 
better  will  you  ate  I  suppose,  sir,"  and  she 
folded  her  arms  across  her  breast  and  stood 
looking  at  him. 

"  How  is  the  luck  of  the  Bogans  to-day  ?  " 
asked  the  kind  old  man.  "  The  head  of  the 
school  I  make  no  doubt  ?  "  and  at  this  mo 
ment  Mike  came  up  the  stairs  and  greeted 
his  priest  with  reverent  affection. 


98  THE  LUCK   OF  THE  BOGANS. 

"  You  're  looking  faint,  sir,"  he  urged. 
"  Biddy  get  a  glass  now,  we  're  quite  by  our 
selves  sir  —  and  I  've  something  for  sickness 
that 's  very  soft  and  fine  entirely." 

"Well,  well,  this  once  then,"  answered 
Father  Miles,  doubtfully.  "  I  've  had  a  hard 
day." 

He  held  the  glass  in  his  hand  for  a  mo 
ment  and  then  pushed  it  away  from  him 
on  the  table.  "  Indeed  it 's  not  wrong  in 
itself,"  said  the  good  priest  looking  up  pres 
ently,  as  if  he  had  made  something  clear  to 
his  mind.  "  The  wrong  is  in  ourselves  to 
make  beasts  of  ourselves  with  taking  too 
much  of  it.  I  don't  shame  me  with  this 
glass  of  the  best  that  you  've  poured  for  me. 
My  own  sin  is  in  the  coffee-pot.  It  wilds 
my  head  when  I  've  got  most  use  for  it,  and 
I  'm  sure  of  an  aching  pate  —  God  forgive 
me  for  indulgence ;  but  I  must  have  it  for 
my  breakfast  now  and  then.  Give  me  a  bit 
of  bread  and  cheese ;  yes,  that 's  what  I 
want  Bridget,"  and  he  pushed  the  glass  still 
farther  away. 

"  I  've  been  at  a  sorry  place  this  night," 
he  went  on  a  moment  later,  "  the  smell  of 
the  stuff  can't  but  remind  me.  'T  is  a  com 
fort  to  come  here  and  find  your  house  so 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  BOG  AN  S.  99 

clean  and  decent,  and  botli  of  you  looking 
me  in  the  face.  God  save  all  poor  sinners  !  " 
and  Mike  and  his  wife  murmured  assent. 

"  I  wish  to  God  you  were  out  of  this  busi 
ness  and  every  honest  man  with  you,"  said 
the  priest,  suddenly  dropping  his  fatherly, 
Bantry  good  fellowship  and  making  his  host 
conscious  of  the  solemnity  of  the  church  al 
tar.  "  ?T  is  a  decent  shop  you  keep,  Mike, 
my  lad,  I  know.  I  know  no  harm  of  it,  but 
there  are  weak  souls  that  can't  master  them 
selves,  and  the  drink  drags  them  down. 
There  's  little  use  in  doing  away  with  the 
shops  though.  We  Ve  got  to  make  young 
men  strong  enough  to  let  drink  alone.  The 
drink  will  always  be  in  the  world.  Here  's 
your  bright  young  son  ;  what  are  they  teach 
ing  him  at  his  school,  do  ye  know  ?  Has 
his  characther  grown,  do  ye  think  Mike  Bo- 
gan,  and  is  he  going  to  be  a  man  for  good, 
and  to  help  decent  things  get  a  start  and 
bad  things  to  keep  their  place  ?  I  don't 
care  how  he  does  his  sums,  so  I  don't,  if  he 
has  no  characther,  and  they  may  fight  about 
beer  and  fight  about  temperance  and  carry 
their  Father  Matthew  flags  flying  high,  so 
they  may,  and  it 's  all  no  good,  lessen  we 
can  raise  the  young  folks  up  above  the  place 


100  THE  LUCK  OF  THE  BOGANS. 

where  drink  and  shame  can  touch  them. 
God  grant  us  help,"  he  whispered,  dropping 
his  head  on  his  breast.  "  I  'm  getting  to  be 
an  old  man  myself,  and  I  've  never  known 
the  temptation  that 's  like  a  hounding  devil 
to  many  men.  I  can  let  drink  alone,  God 
pity  those  who  can't.  Keep  the  young  lads 
out  from  it  Mike.  You  're  a  good  fellow, 
you're  careful,  but  poor  human  souls  are 
weak,  God  knows !  " 

"  'T  is  thrue  for  you  indade  sir !  "  re 
sponded  Biddy.  Her  eyes  were  full  of  tears 
at  Father  Miles's  tone  and  earnestness,  but 
she  could  not  have  made  clear  to  herself 
what  he  had  said. 

u  Will  I  put  a  dhrap  more  of  wather  in 
it,  your  riverence  ?  "  she  suggested,  but  the 
priest  shook  his  head  gently,  and,  taking  a 
handful  of  parish  papers  out  of  his  pocket, 
proceeded  to  hold  conference  with  the  mas 
ter  of  the  house.  Biddy  waited  a  while  and 
at  last  ventured  to  clear  away  the  good 
priest's  frugal  supper.  She  left  the  glass, 
but  he  went  away  without  touching  it,  and 
in  the  very  afterglow  of  his  parting  blessing 
she  announced  that  she  had  the  makings 
of  a  pain  within,  and  took  the  cordial  with 
apparent  approval. 


THE  LUCK   OF  THE  BOGANS.  101 

Mike  did  not  make  any  comment ;  he  was 
tired  and  it  was  late,  and  long  past  their 
bedtime. 

Biddy  was  wide  awake  and  talkative  from 
her  tonic,  and  soon  pursued  the  subject  of 
conversation. 

"  What  set  the  father  out  wid  talking  I 
do'  know  ? "  she  inquired  a  little  ill-hu 
moredly.  "  'T  was  thrue  for  him  that  we 
kape  a  dacint  shop  anyhow,  an'  how  will  it 
be  in  the  way  of  poor  Danny  when  it 's  find 
ing  the  manes  to  put  him  where  he  is  ?  " 

"  'T  wa'n't  that  he  mint  at  all,"  answered 
Mike  from  his  pillow.  "  Did  n't  ye  hear 
what  he  said  ?  "  after  endeavoring  fruitlessly 
to  repeat  it  in  his  own  words  —  "  He 's  right, 
sure,  about  a  b'y's  getting  thim  books  and 
having  no  characther.  He  thinks  well  of 
Danny,  and  he  knows  no  harm  of  him. 
Wisha  !  what  '11  we  do  wid  that  b'y,  Biddy, 
I  do'  know !  '  Fadther,'  says  he  to  me  to 
day,  '  why  could  n't  ye  wait  an'  bring  me 
into  the  wurruld  on  American  soil,'  says  he 
'  and  maybe  I  'd  been  prisident,'  says  he, 
and  't  was  the  thruth  for  him." 

"  I  'd  rather  for  him  to  be  a  priest  meself," 
replied  the  mother. 

"  That 's  what  Father  Miles  said  himself 


102     THE  LUCK  OF  THE  BO  CANS. 

the  other  day,"  announced  Mike  wide  awake 
now.  "  '  I  wish  he  'd  the  makings  of  a  good 
priest,'  said  he.  '  There  '11  soon  be  need  of 
good  men  and  hard  picking  for  'em  too,' 
said  he,  and  he  let  a  great  sigh.  '  'T  is 
money  they  want  and  place  they  want,  most 
o'  them  bla'guard  b'ys  in  the  siminary. 
'T  is  the  old  fashioned  min  like  mesilf  that 
think  however  will  they  get  souls  through 
this  life  and  through  heaven's  gate  at  last, 
wid  clane  names  and  God-fearin',  dacint 
names  left  after  them.'  Thim  was  his  own 
words  indade." 

"  Idication  was  his  cry  always,"  said  Brid 
get,  blessing  herself  in  the  dark.  "  'T  was 
only  last  confission  he  took  no  note  of  me 
own  sins  while  he  redded  himself  in  the 
face  with  why  don't  I  kape  Mary  Ellen  to 
the  school,  and  myself  not  an  hour  in  the 
day  to  rest  my  poor  bones.  '  I  have  to  kape 
her  in,  to  mind  the  shmall  childer,'  says  I, 
an'  'twas  thrue  for  me,  so  it  was."  She 
gave  a  jerk  under  the  blankets,  which  rep 
resented  the  courtesy  of  the  occasion.  She 
had  a  great  respect  and  some  awe  for  Fa 
ther  Miles,  but  she  considered  herself  to 
have  held  her  ground  in  that  discussion. 

"  We  '11  do  our  best  by  them  all,  sure,"  an- 


THE  LUCK   OF  THE  BOGANS.  103 

swered  Mike.  "  'T  is  tribbling  me  money  I 
am  ivery  day,"  he  added,  gayly.  "  The  lord- 
liftinant  himsilf  is  no  surer  of  a  good  bury- 
in'  than  you  an'  me.  What  if  we  made  a 
priest  of  Dan  intirely  ?  "  with  a  great  out 
burst  of  proper  pride.  "  A  son  of  your  own 
at  the  alther  saying  mass  for  you,  Biddy 
Flaherty  from  Glengariff!  " 

"  He  's  no  mind  for  it,  more  's  the  grief," 
answered  the  mother,  unexpectedly,  shak 
ing  her  head  gloomily  on  the  pillow,  "  but 
marruk  me  wuds  now,  he  '11  ride  in  his  car 
riage  when  I  'm  under  the  sods,  give  me 
grace  and  you  too  Mike  Bogan  !  Look  at 
the  airs  of  him  and  the  toss  of  his  head. 
4  Mother,'  says  he  to  me,  '  I  'm  goin'  to  be  a 
big  man !  '  says  he,  4  whin  I  grow  up.  D'  ye 
think  anybody  '11  take  me  f  er  an  Irish 
man?'" 

"  Bad  cess  to  the  bla'guard  fer  that  then !  " 
said  Mike.  "  It 's  spoilin'  him  you  are.  'T  is 
me  own  pride  of  heart  to  come  from  old 
Bantry,  an'  he  lied  to  me  yesterday  gone, 
saying  would  I  take  him  to  see  the  old 
place.  Wisha !  he 's  got  too  much  tongue, 
and  he  's  spindin'  me  money  for  me." 

But  Biddy  pretended  to  be  falling  asleep. 
This  was  not  the  first  time  that  the  honest 


104  THE  LUCK   OF  THE  EOGANS. 

pair  had  felt  anxiety  creeping  into  their  pride 
about  Dan.  He  frightened  them  sometimes ; 
he  was  cleverer  than  they,  and  the  mother 
had  already  stormed  at  the  boy  for  his  mis 
demeanors,  in  her  garrulous  fashion,  but  cov 
ered  them  from  his  father  notwithstanding. 
She  felt  an  assurance  of  the  merely  tempo 
rary  damage  of  wild  oats  ;  she  believed  it 
was  just  as  well  for  a  boy  to  have  his  free 
dom  and  his  fling.  She  even  treated  his 
known  lies  as  if  they  were  truth.  An  easy 
going  comfortable  soul  was  Biddy,  who  with 
much  shrewdness  and  only  a  trace  of  shrew 
ishness  got  through  this  evil  world  as  best 
she  might. 

The  months  flew  by.  Mike  Bogan  was  a 
middle-aged  man,  and  he  and  his  wife  looked 
somewhat  elderly  as  they  went  to  their  pew  in 
the  broad  aisle  on  Sunday  morning.  Danny 
usually  came  too,  and  the  girls,  but  Dan 
looked  contemptuous  as  he  sat  next  his 
father  and  said  his  prayers  perfunctorily. 
Sometimes  he  was  not  there  at  all,  and  Mike 
had  a  heavy  heart  under  his  stiff  best  coat. 
He  was  richer  than  any  other  member  of 
Father  Miles's  parish,  and  he  was  known 
and  respected  everywhere  as  a  good  citizen. 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  BOGANS.  105 

Even  the  most  ardent  believers  in  the  tem 
perance  cause  were  known  to  say  that  little 
mischief  would  be  done  if  all  the  rumsellers 
were  such  men  as  Mr.  Bogan.  He  was  gen 
erous  and  in  his  limited  way  public  spirited. 
He  did  his  duty  to  his  neighbor  as  he  saw  it. 
Every  one  used  liquor  more  or  less,  somebody 
must  sell  it,  but  a  low  groggery  was  as  much 
a  thing  of  shame  to  him  as  to  any  man.  He 
never  sold  to  boys,  or  to  men  who  had  had  too 
much  already.  His  shop  was  clean  and  whole 
some,  and  in  the  evening  when  a  dozen  or 
more  of  his  respectable  acquaintances  gath 
ered  after  work  for  a  social  hour  or  two  and 
a  glass  of  whiskey  to  rest  and  cheer  them 
after  exposure,  there  was  not  a  little  good 
talk  about  affairs  from  their  point  of  view, 
and  plenty  of  honest  fun.  In  their  own 
houses  very  likely  the  rooms  were  close  and 
hot,  and  the  chairs  hard  and  unrestful.  The 
wife  had  taken  her  bit  of  recreation  by  day 
light  and  visited  her  friends.  This  was  their 
comfortable  club-room,  Mike  Bogan's  shop, 
and  Mike  himself  the  leader  of  the  assem 
bly.  There  was  a  sober-mindedness  in  the 
man  ;  his  companions  were  contented  though 
he  only  looked  on  tolerantly  at  their  fun,  for 
the  most  part,  without  taking  any  active 
share  himself. 


106     THE  LUCK  OF  THE  BOGANS. 

One  cool  October  evening  the  company 
was  well  gathered  in,  there  was  even  a  glow 
of  wood  fire  in  the  stove,  and  two  of  the  old 
men  were  sitting  close  beside  it.  Corny  Sul 
livan  had  been  a  soldier  in  the  British  army 
for  many  years,  he  had  been  wounded  at 
last  at  Sebastopol,  and  yet  here  he  was,  full 
of  military  lore  and  glory,  and  propped  by  a 
wooden  leg.  Corny  was  usually  addressed 
as  Timber-toes  by  his  familiars  ;  he  was  an 
irascible  old  fellow  to  deal  with,  but  as  clean 
as  a  whistle  from  long  habit  and  even  stately 
to  look  at  in  his  arm-chair.  He  had  a 
nephew  with  whom  he  made  his  home,  who 
would  give  him  an  arm  presently  and  get  him 
home  to  bed.  His  mate  was  an  old  sailor 
much  bent  in  the  back  by  rheumatism,  Jerry 
Bogan ;  who,  though  no  relation,  was  ten 
derly  treated  by  Mike,  being  old  and  poor. 
His  score  was  never  kept,  but  he  seldom 
wanted  for  his  evening  grog.  Jerry  Bogan 
was  a  cheerful  soul ;  the  wit  of  the  Celts  and 
their  pathetic  wistfulness  were  delightful  in 
him.  The  priest  liked  him,  the  doctor  half 
loved  him,  this  old-fashioned  Irishman  who 
had  a  graceful  compliment  or  a  thrust  of 
wit  for  whoever  came  in  his  way.  What  a 
treasury  of  old  Irish  lore  and  legend  was 


THE  LUCK   OF  THE  BOGANS.  107 

this  old  sailor !  What  broadness  and  good 
cheer  and  charity  had  been  fostered  in  his 
sailor  heart !  The  delight  of  little  children 
with  his  clever  tales  and  mysterious  perform 
ances  with  bits  of  soft  pine  and  a  sharp 
jackknife,  a  very  Baron  Munchausen  of  ad- 
venture,  and  here  he  sat,  round  backed  and 
head  pushed  forward  like  an  old  turtle, 
by  the  fire.  The  other  men  sat  or  stood 
about  the  low- walled  room.  Mike  was  ser 
ving  his  friends  ;  there  was  a  clink  of  glass 
and  a  stirring  and  shaking,  a  pungent  odor 
of  tobacco,  and  much  laughter. 

"  Soombody,  whoiver  it  was,  thrun  a  cat 
down  in  Tom  Auley's  well  las'  night,"  an 
nounced  Corny  Sullivan  with  more  than 
usual  gravity. 

"  They  '11  have  no  luck  thin,"  says  Jerry. 
"  Anybody  that  meddles  wid  wather  'ill  have 
no  luck  while  they  live,  faix  they  'ont  thin." 
"  Tom  Auley  's  been  up  watchin'  this  three 
nights  now,"  confides  the  other  old  gossip. 
"  Thim  dirty  b'y's  troublin'  his  pigs  in  the 
sthy,  and  having  every  stramash  about  the 
place,  all  for  revinge  upon  him  for  gettin' 
the  police  afther  thim  when  they  sthole  his 
hins.  'T  was  as  well  for  him  too,  they  're 
dirty  bligards,  the  whole  box  and  dice  of 
them." 


108     THE  LUCK  OF  THE  BOGANS. 

"  Whishper  now !  "  and  Jerry  pokes  his 
great  head  closer  to  his  friend.  "  The  divil 
of  'em  all  is  young  Dan  Bogan,  Mike's  son. 
Sorra  a  bit  o'  good  is  all  his  schoolin',  and 
Mike's  heart  '11  be  soon  broke  from  him.  I 
see  him  goin'  about  wid  his  nose  in  the  air0 
He  's  a  pritty  boy,  but  the  divil  is  in  him  an' 
't  is  he  ought  to  have  been  a  praste  wid  his 
chances  and  Father  Miles  himself  tarkin  and 
tarkin  wid  him  tryin'  to  make  him  a  crown 
of  pride  to  his  people  after  all  they  did  for 
him.  There  was  niver  a  spade  in  his  hand 
to  touch  the  ground  yet.  Look  at  his  poor 
father  now  !  Look  at  Mike,  that 's  grown 
old  and  gray  since  winther  time."  And  they 
turned  their  eyes  to  the  bar  to  refresh  their 
memories  with  the  sight  of  the  disappointed 
face  behind  it. 

There  was  a  rattling  at  the  door-latch  just 
then  and  loud  voices  outside,  and  as  the  old 
men  looked,  young  Dan  Bogan  came  stum 
bling  into  the  shop.  Behind  him  were  two 
low  fellows,  the  worst  in  the  town,  they  had 
all  been  drinking  more  than  was  good  for 
them,  and  for  the  first  time  Mike  Bogan  saw 
his  only  son's  boyish  face  reddened  and 
stupid  with  whiskey.  It  had  been  an  un 
broken  law  that  Dan  should  keep  out  of  the 


THE  LUCK   OF  THE  BOGANS.  109 

shop  with  his  comrades  ;  now  he  strode  for 
ward  with  an  absurd  travesty  of  manliness, 
and  demanded  liquor  for  himself  and  his 
friends  at  his  father's  hands. 

Mike  staggered,  his  eyes  glared  with 
anger.  His  fatherly  pride  made  him  long 
to  uphold  the  poor  boy  before  so  many  wit 
nesses.  He  reached  for  a  glass,  then  he 
pushed  it  away  —  and  with  quick  step 
reached  Dan's  side,  caught  him  by  the  col 
lar,  and  held  him.  One  or  two  of  the  spec 
tators  chuckled  with  weak  excitement,  but 
the  rest  pitied  Mike  Bogan  as  he  would  have 
pitied  them. 

The  angry  father  pointed  his  son's  com 
panions  to  the  door,  and  after  a  moment's 
hesitation  they  went  skulking  out,  and  father 
and  son  disappeared  up  the  stairway.  Dan 
was  a  coward,  he  was  glad  to  be  thrust  into 
his  own  bedroom  upstairs,  his  head  was 
dizzy,  and  he  muttered  only  a  feeble  oath. 
Several  of  Mike  Bogan's  customers  had 
kindly  disappeared  when  he  returned  trying 
to  look  the  same  as  ever,  but  one  after 
another  the  great  tears  rolled  down  his 
cheeks.  He  never  had  faced  despair  till 
now ;  he  turned  his  back  to  the  men,  and 
fumbled  aimlessly  among  the  bottles  on  the 


110     THE  LUCK  OF  THE  BOGANS. 

shelf.  Some  one  came,  in  unconscious  of  the 
pitiful  scene,  and  impatiently  repeated  his 
order  to  the  shopkeeper. 

"  God  help  me,  boys,  I  can't  sell  more 
this  night  !  "  he  said  brokenly.  "  Go  home 
now  and  lave  me  to  myself." 

They  were  glad  to  go,  though  it  cut  the 
evening  short.  Jerry  Bogan  bundled  his 
way  last  with  his  two  canes.  "  Sind  the  b'y 
to  say,"  he  advised  in  a  gruff  whisper. 
"  Sind  him  out  wid  a  good  captain  now, 
Mike,  't  will  make  a  man  of  him  yet." 

A  man  of  him  yet !  alas,  alas  —  for  the 
hopes  that  had  been  growing  so  many  years. 
Alas  for  the  pride  of  a  simple  heart,  alas 
for  the  day  Mike  Bogan  came  away  from 
sunshiny  old  Bantry  with  his  baby  son  in 
his  arms  for  the  sake  of  making  that  son  a 
gentleman. 

III. 

Winter  had  fairly  set  in,  but  the  snow 
had  not  come,  and  the  street  was  bleak  and 
cold.  The  wind  was  stinging  men's  faces 
and  piercing  the  wooden  houses.  A  hard 
night  for  sailors  coming  on  the  coast  —  a 
bitter  night  for  poor  people  everywhere. 

From  one  house  and  another  the  lights 


THE  LUCK   OF  THE  BOGANS.  Ill 

went  out  in  the  street  where  the  Bogans 
lived ;  at  last  there  was  110  other  lamp  than 
theirs,  in  a  window  that  lighted  the  outer 
stairs.  Sometimes  a  woman's  shadow  passed 
across  the  curtain  and  waited  there,  draw 
ing  it  away  from  the  panes  a  moment  as  if 
to  listen  the  better  for  a  footstep  that  did 
not  come.  Poor  Biddy  had  waited  many  a 
night  before  this.  Her  husband  was  far 
from  well,  the  doctor  said  that  his  heart 
was  not  working  right,  and  that  he  must  be 
very  careful,  but  the  truth  was  that  Mike's 
heart  was  almost  broken  by  grief.  Dan 
was  going  the  downhill  road,  he  had  been 
drinking  harder  and  harder,  and  spending  a 
great  deal  of  money.  He  had  smashed  more 
than  one  carriage  and  lamed  more  than  one 
horse  from  the  livery  stables,  and  he  had 
kept  the  lowest  company  in  vilest  dens.  Now 
he  threatened  to  go  to  New  York,  and  it  had 
come  at  last  to  being  the  only  possible  joy 
that  he  should  come  home  at  any  time  of 
night  rather  than  disappear  no  one  knew 
where.  He  had  laughed  in  Father  Miles's 
face  when  the  good  old  man,  after  pleading 
with  him,  had  tried  to  threaten  him. 

Biddy  was  in  an  agony  of  suspense  as  the 
night  wore  on.     She  dozed  a  little  only  to 


112     THE  LUCK  OF  THE  BOG  AN S. 

wake  with  a  start,  and  listen  for  some  wel 
come  sound  out  in  the  cold  night.  Was 
her  boy  freezing  to  death  somewhere  ? 
Other  mothers  only  scolded  if  their  sons 
were  wild,  but  this  was  killing  her  and 
Mike,  they  had  set  their  hopes  so  high. 
Mike  was  groaning  dreadfully  in  his  sleep 
to-night  —  the  fire  was  burning  low,  and 
she  did  not  dare  to  stir  it.  She  took  her 
worn  rosary  again  and  tried  to  tell  its  beads. 
"  Mother  of  Pity,  pray  for  us !  "  she  said, 
wearily  dropping  the  beads  in  her  lap. 

There  was  a  sound  in  the  street  at  last, 
but  it  was  not  of  one  man's  stumbling  feet, 
but  of  many.  She  was  stiff  with  cold,  she 
had  slept  long,  and  it  was  almost  day.  She 
rushed  with  strange  apprehension  to  the 
doorway  and  stood  with  the  flaring  lamp 
in  her  hand  at  the  top  of  the  stairs.  The 
voices  were  suddenly  hushed.  "  Go  for 
Father  Miles  !  "  said  somebody  in  a  hoarse 
voice,  and  she  heard  the  words.  They  were 
carrying  a  burden,  they  brought  it  up  to 
the  mother  who  waited.  In  their  arms  lay 
her  son  stone  dead ;  he  had  been  stabbed  in 
a  fight,  he  had  struck  a  man  down  who  had 
sprung  back  at  him  like  a  tiger.  Dan,  lit- 


THE  LUCK   OF   THE  BOGANS.  113 

tie  Dan,  was  dead,  the  luck  of  the  Bogans, 
the  end  was  here,  and  a  wail  that  pierced 
the  night,  and  chilled  the  hearts  that  heard 
it,  was  the  first  message  of  sorrow  to  the 
poor  father  in  his  uneasy  sleep. 

The  group  of  men  stood  by  —  some  of 
them  had  been  drinking,  but  they  were  all 
awed  and  shocked.  You  would  have  be 
lieved  every  one  of  them  to  be  on  the  side 
of  law  and  order.  Mike  Bogan  knew  that 
the  worst  had  happened.  Biddy  had  rushed 
to  him  and  fallen  across  the  bed ;  for  one 
minute  her  aggravating  shrieks  had  stopped  ; 
he  began  to  dress  himself,  but  he  was  shak 
ing  too  much ;  he  stepped  out  to  the  kitchen 
and  faced  the  frightened  crowd. 

"  Is  my  son  dead,  then  ?  "  asked  Mike 
Bogan  of  Bantry,  with  a  piteous  quiver  of 
the  lip,  and  nobody  spoke.  There  was 
something  glistening  and  awful  about  his 
pleasant  Irish  face.  He  tottered  where  he 
stood,  he  caught  at  a  chair  to  steady  him 
self.  "  The  luck  o'  the  Bogans  is  it  ?  "  and 
he  smiled  strangely,  then  a  fierce  hardness 
came  across  his  face  and  changed  it  utterly. 
"  Come  down,  come  down !  "  he  shouted, 
and  snatching  the  key  of  the  shop  went 
down  the  stairs  himself  with  great  sure- 


114     THE  LUCK  OF  THE  BOGANS. 

footed  leaps.  What  was  in  Mike  ?  was  he 
crazy  with  grief  ?  They  stood  out  of  his 
way  and  saw  him  fling  out  bottle  after  bot 
tle  and  shatter  them  against  the  wall. 
They  saw  him  roll  one  cask  after  another  to 
the  doorway,  and  out  into  the  street  in  the 
gray  light  of  morning,  and  break  through 
the  staves  with  a  heavy  axe.  Nobody  dared 
to  restrain  his  fury  —  there  was  a  devil  in 
him,  they  were  afraid  of  the  man  in  his 
blinded  rage  The  odor  of  whiskey  and 
gin  filled  the  cold  air  —  some  of  them  would 
have  stolen  the  wasted  liquor  if  they  could, 
but  no  man  there  dared  to  move  or  speak, 
and  it  was  not  until  the  tall  figure  of  Father 
Miles  came  along  the  street,  and  the  patient 
eyes  that  seemed  always  to  keep  vigil,  and 
the  calm  voice  with  its  flavor  of  Bantry 
brogue,  came  to  Mike  Bogan's  help,  that  he 
let  himself  be  taken  out  of  the  wrecked  shop 
and  away  from  the  spilt  liquors  to  the  shel 
ter  of  his  home. 

A  week  later  he  was  only  a  shadow  of  his 
sturdy  self,  he  was  lying  on  his  bed  dream 
ing  of  Bantry  Bay  and  the  road  to  Glen- 
gariff  —  the  hedge  roses  were  in  bloom,  and 
he  was  trudging  along  the  road  to  see 


THE  LUCK  OF  THE  BOGANS.  115 

Biddy.  He  was  working  on  the  old  farm 
at  home  and  could  not  put  the  seed  potatoes 
in  their  trench,  for  little  Dan  kept  falling  in 
and  getting  in  his  way.  "  Dan 's  not  going 
to  be  plagued  with  the  bad  craps,"  he  mut 
tered  to  Father  Miles  who  sat  beside  the  bed. 
"  Dan  will  be  a  fine  squire  in  Ameriky," 
but  the  priest  only  stroked  his  hand  as  it 
twitched  and  lifted  on  the  coverlet.  What 
was  Biddy  doing,  crying  and  putting  the 
candles  about  him  ?  Then  Mike's  poor 
brain  grew  steady. 

"  Oh,  my  God,  if  we  were  back  in  Ban- 
try  !  I  saw  the  gorse  bloomin'  in  the 
t'atch  d'  ye  know.  Oh  wisha  wisha  the  poor 
ould  home  an'  the  green  praties  that  day 
we  come  from  it  —  with  our  luck  smilin'  us 
in  the  face." 

"  Whist  darlin'  :  kape  aisy  darliii'  !  " 
mourned  Biddy,  with  a  great  sob.  Father 
Miles  sat  straight  and  stern  in  his  chair 
by  the  pillow  —  he  had  said  the  prayers  for 
the  dying,  and  the  holy  oil  was  already 
shining  on  Mike  Bogan's  forehead.  The 
keeners  were  swaying  themselves  to  and  fro, 
there  where  they  waited  in  the  next  room. 


FAIR  DAY. 

WIDOW  MERCY  BASCOM  came  back  alone 
into  the  empty  kitchen  and  seated  herself  in 
her  favorite  splint-bottomed  chair  by  the 
window,  with  a  dreary  look  on  her  face. 

"  I  s'pose  I  be  an  old  woman,  an'  past 
goin'  to  cattle  shows  an'  junketings,  but 
folks  need  n't  take  it  so  for  granted.  I  'm 
sure  I  don't  want  to  be  on  my  feet  all  day, 
trapesin'  fair  grounds  an'  swallowin'  every 
body's  dust ;  not  but  what  I  'm  as  able  as 
most,  though  I  be  seventy-three  year  old." 

She  folded  her  hands  in  her  lap  and 
looked  out  across  the  deserted  yard.  There 
was  not  even  a  hen  in  sight ;  she  was  left 
alone  for  the  day.  "  Tobias's  folks,"  as  she 
called  the  son's  family  with  whom  she  made 
her  home  —  Tobias's  folks  had  just  started 
for  a  day's  pleasuring  at  the  county  fair,  ten 
miles  distant.  She  had  not  thought  of  going 
with  them,  nor  expected  any  invitation ;  she 
had  even  helped  them  off  with  her  famous 
energy ;  but  there  was  an  unexpected  reluc- 


FAIR  DAY. 

tance  at  being  left  behind,  a  sad  little  feeling 
that  would  rise  suddenly  in  her  throat  as  she 
stood  in  the  door  and  saw  them  drive  away 
in  the  shiny,  two-seated  wagon.  Johnny, 
the  youngest  and  favorite  of  her  grandchil 
dren,  had  shouted  back  in  his  piping  voice, 
44 1  wish  you  was  goin',  Grandma." 

"The  only  one  on  'em  that  thought  of 
me,"  said  Mercy  Bascom  to  herself,  and  then 
not  being  a  meditative  person  by  nature,  she 
went  to  work  industriously  and  proceeded  to 
the  repairing  of  Tobias's  work-day  coat.  It 
was  sharp  weather  now  in  the  early  morning, 
and  he  would  soon  need  the  warmth  of  it. 
Tobias's  placid  wife  never  anticipated  and 
always  lived  in  a  state  of  trying  to  catch  up 
with  her  work.  It  never  had  been  the  elder 
woman's  way,  and  Mercy  reviewed  her  own 
active  career  with  no  mean  pride.  She  had 
been  left  a  widow  at  twenty-eight,  with  four 
children  and  a  stony  New  Hampshire  farm, 
but  had  bravely  won  her  way,  paid  her 
debts,  and  provided  the  three  girls  and  their 
brother  Tobias  with  the  best  available 
schooling. 

For  a  woman  of  such  good  judgment  and 
high  purpose  in  life,  Mrs.  Bascom  had  made 
a  very  unwise  choice  in  marrying  Tobias 


118  FAIR  DAY. 

Bascom  the  elder.  He  was  not  even  the 
owner  of  a  good  name,  and  led  her  a  terrible 
life  with  his  drunken  shiftlessness,  and  hin 
drance  of  all  her  own  better  aims.  Even 
while  the  children  were  babies,  however,  and 
life  was  at  its  busiest  and  most  demanding 
stages,  the  determined  soul  would  not  be 
baffled  by  such  damaging  partnership.  She 
showed  the  plainer  of  what  stuff  she  was 
made,  and  simply  worked  the  harder  and 
went  her  ways  more  fiercely.  If  it  were  some 
times  whispered  that  she  was  unamiable,  her 
wiser  neighbors  understood  the  power  of  will 
that  was  needed  to  cope  with  circumstances 
that  would  have  crushed  a  weaker  woman. 
As  for  her  children,  they  were  very  fond  of 
her  in  the  undemonstrative  New  England 
fashion.  Only  the  two  eldest  could  remem 
ber  their  father  at  all,  and  after  he  was  re 
moved  from  this  world  Tobias  Bascom  left 
but  slight  proofs  of  having  ever  existed  at 
all,  except  in  the  stern  lines  and  premature 
aging  of  his  wife's  face. 

The  years  that  followed  were  years  of 
hard  work  on  the  little  farm,  but  diligence 
and  perseverance  had  their  reward.  When 
the  three  daughters  came  to  womanhood 
they  were  already  skilled  farmhouse  keep- 


FAIR  DAY.  119 

ers,  and  were  dispatched  for  their  own  homes 
well  equipped  with  feather-beds  and  home 
spun  linen  and  woolen.  Mercy  Bascom  was 
glad  to  have  them  well  settled,  if  the  truth 
were  known.  She  did  not  like  to  have  her 
own  will  and  law  questioned  or  opposed,  and 
when  she  sat  down  to  supper  alone  with  her 
son  Tobias,  after  the  last  daughter's  wed 
ding,  she  had  a  glorious  feeling  of  peace  and 
satisfaction. 

"  There  's  a  sight  o'  work  left  yet  in  the 
old  ma'am,"  she  said  to  Tobias,  in  an  un- 
wonteclly  affectionate  tone.  "  I  guess  we 
shall  keep  house  together  as  comfortable  as 
most  folks."  But  Tobias  grew  very  red  in 
the  face  and  bent  over  his  plate. 

"  I  don'  know  's  I  want  the  girls  to  get 
ahead  of  me,"  he  said  sheepishly.  "  I  ain't 
meanin'  to  put  you  out  with  another  wedding 
right  away,  but  I  've  been  a-lookin'  round, 
an'  I  guess  I  've  found  somebody  to  suit 
me." 

Mercy  Bascom  turned  cold  with  misery 
and  disappointment.  "  Why  T'bias,"  she 
said,  anxiously,  "  folks  always  said  that  you 
was  cut  out  for  an  old  bachelor  till  I  come 
to  believe  it,  an'  I  've  been  lottin'  on  "  — 

"  Course  nobody  's  goin'  to  wrench  me  an' 


120  FAIR  DAY. 

you  apart,"  said  Tobias  gallantly.  "  I  made 
up  my  mind  long  ago  you  an'  me  was  yoke 
mates,  mother.  An'  I  had  it  in  my  mind  to 
fetch  you  somebody  that  would  ease  you  o' 
quite  so  much  work  now  'Liza's  gone  oil." 

"  I  don't  want  nobody,"  said  the  grieved 
woman,  and  she  could  eat  no  more  supper ; 
that  festive  supper  for  which  she  had  cooked 
her  very  best.  Tobias  was  sorry  for  her, 
but  he  had  his  rights,  and  now  simply  felt 
light-hearted  because  he  had  freed  his  mind 
of  this  unwelcome  declaration.  Tobias  was 
slow  and  stolid  to  behold,  but  he  was  a  man 
of  sound  ideas  and  great  talent  for  farming. 
He  had  found  it  difficult  to  choose  between 
his  favorites  among  the  marriageable  girls, 
a  bright  young  creature  who  was  really  too 
good  for  him,  but  penniless,  and  a  weaker 
damsel  who  was  heiress  to  the  best  farm  in 
town.  The  farm  won  the  day  at  last ;  and 
Mrs.  Bascom  felt  a  thrill  of  pride  at  her  son's 
worldly  success;  then  she  asked  to  know 
her  son's  plans,  and  was  wholly  disappointed. 
Tobias  meant  to  sell  the  old  place ;  he  had 
no  idea  of  leaving  'her  alone  as  she  wistfully 
complained ;  he  meant  to  have  her  make  a 
new  home  at  the  Bassett  place  with  him  and 
his  bride. 


FAIR  DAY.  121 

That  she  would  never  do :  the  old  place 
which  had  given  them  a  living  never  should 
be  left  or  sold  to  strangers.  Tobias  was  not 
prepared  for  her  fierce  outburst  of  reproach 
at  the  mere  suggestion.  She  would  live  alone 
and  pay  her  way  as  she  always  had  done, 
and  so  it  was,  for  a  few  years  of  difficulties. 
Tobias  was  never  ready  to  plough  or  plant 
when  she  needed  him  ;  his  own  great  farm 
was  more  than  he  could  serve  properly.  It 
grew  more  and  more  difficult  to  hire  work 
men,  and  they  were  seldom  worth  their 
wages.  At  last  Tobias's  wife,  who  was  a 
kindly  soul,  persuaded  her  reluctant  mother- 
in-law  to  come  and  spend  a  winter ;  the  old 
woman  was  tired  and  for  once  disheartened ; 
she  found  herself  deeply  in  love  with  her 
grandchildren,  and  so  next  spring  she  let 
the  little  hill  farm  on  the  halves  to  an  impe 
cunious  but  hard-working  young  couple. 

To  everybody's  surprise  the  two  women 
lived  together  harmoniously.  Tobias's  wife 
did  everything  to  please  her  mother-in-law 
except  to  be  other  than  a  Bassett.  And 
Mercy,  for  the  most  part,  ignored  this  mis 
fortune,  and  rarely  was  provoked  into  call 
ing  it  a  fault.  Now  that  the  necessity  for 
hard  work  and  anxiety  was  past,  she  ap- 


122  FAIR   DAY. 

peared  to  have  come  to  an  Indian  summer 
shining-out  of  her  natural  amiability  and  tol 
erance.  She  was  sometimes  indirectly  re 
proachful  of  her  daughter's  easy-going  ways, 
and  set  an  indignant  example  now  and  then 
by  a  famous  onslaught  of  unnecessary  work, 
and  always  dressed  and  behaved  herself  in 
plainest  farm  fashion,  while  Mrs.  Tobias  was 
given  to  undue  worldliness  and  style.  But 
they  worked  well  together  in  the  main,  for,  to 
use  Mercy's  own  words,  she  "  had  seen  enough 
of  life  not  to  want  to  go  into  other  folks' 
houses  and  make  trouble." 

As  people  grow  older  their  interests  are 
apt  to  become  fewer,  and  one  of  the  thoughts 
that  came  oftenest  to  Mercy  Bascom  in  her 
old  age  was  a  time-honored  quarrel  with  one 
of  her  husband's  sisters,  who  had  been  her 
neighbor  many  years  before,  and  then  moved 
to  greater  prosperity  at  the  other  side  of  the 
county.  It  is  not  worth  while  to  tell  the  long 
story  of  accusations  and  misunderstandings, 
but  while  the  two  women  did  not  meet  for 
almost  half  a  lifetime  the  grievance  was  as 
fresh  as  if  it  were  yesterday's.  Wrongs  of 
defrauded  sums  of  money  and  contested 
rights  in  unproductive  acres  of  land,  wrongs 
of  slighting  remarks  and  contempt  of  equal 


FAIR  DAY.  123 

claims;  the  remembrance  of  all  these  was 
treasured  as  a  miser  fingers  his  gold.  Mercy 
Bascom  freed  herself  from  the  wearisome 
detail  of  every-day  life  whenever  she  could 
find  a  patient  listener  to  whom  to  tell  the 
long  story.  She  found  it  as  interesting  as  a 
story  of  the  Arabian  Nights,  or  an  exciting 
play  at  the  theatre.  She  would  have  you 
believe  that  she  was  faultless  in  the  matter, 
and  would  not  acknowledge  that  her  sister- 
in-law  Ruth  Bascom,  now  Mrs.  Parlet,  was 
also  a  hard-working  woman  with  dependent 
little  children  at  the  time  of  the  great  fray. 
Of  late  years  her  son  had  suspected  that 
his  mother  regretted  the  alienation,  but  he 
knew  better  than  to  suggest  a  peace-making. 
"  Let  them  work  —  let  them  work  !  "  he  told 
his  wife,  when  she  proposed  one  night  to 
bring  the  warring  sisters-in-law  unexpect 
edly  together.  It  may  have  been  that  old 
Mercy  began  to  feel  a  little  lonely  and  would 
be  glad  to  have  somebody  of  her  own  age 
with  whom  to  talk  over  old  times.  She  never 
had  known  the  people  much  in  this  Bassett 
region,  and  there  were  few  but  young  folks 
left  at  any  rate. 

As  the  pleasure-makers  hastened  toward 


124  FAIR  DAY. 

the  fair  that  bright  October  morning  Mercy 
sat  by  the  table  sewing  at  a  sufficient  patch 
in  the  old  coat.  There  was  little  else  to  do 
all  day  but  to  get  herself  a  luncheon  at  noon 
and  have  supper  ready  when  the  family 
came  home  cold  and  tired  at  night.  The 
two  cats  came  purring  about  her  chair  ;  one 
persuaded  her  to  open  the  cellar  door,  and 
the  other  leaped  to  the  top  of  the  kitchen  ta 
ble  unrebuked,  and  blinked  herself  to  sleep 
there  in  the  sun.  This  was  a  favored  kitten 
brought  from  the  old  home,  and  seemed  like 
a  link  between  the  old  days  and  these.  Her 
mistress  noticed  with  surprise  that  pussy  was 
beginning  to  look  old,  and  she  could  not  re 
sist  a  little  sigh.  "  Land  !  the  next  world 
may  seem  dreadful  new  too,  and  I  've  got  to 
get  u$ed  to  that,"  she  thought  with  a  grim 
smile  of  foreboding.  "  How  do  folks  live 
that  wants  always  to  be  on  the  go  ?  There 
was  Ruth  Parlet,  that  must  be  always  a  vis- 
itin'  and  goin'  —  well,  I  won't  say  that  there 
was  n't  a  time  when  I  wished  for  the  chance." 
Justice  always  won  the  day  in  such  minor 
questions  as  this. 

Ruth  Parlet's  name  started  the  usual 
thoughts,  but  somehow  or  other  Mercy  could 
not  find  it  in  her  heart  to  be  as  harsh  as 


FAIR  DAY.  125 

usual.  She  remembered  one  thing  after  an 
other  about  their  girlhood  together.  They 
had  been  great  friends  then,  and  the  animos 
ity  may  have  had  its  root  in  the  fact  that 
Kuth  helped  forward  her  brother's  marriage. 
But  there  were  years  before  that  of  friendly 
foregathering  and  girlish  alliances  and  rival 
ries  ;  spinning  and  herb  gathering  and  quilt 
ing.  It  seemed,  as  Mercy  thought  about  it, 
that  Ruth  was  good  company  after  all.  But 
what  did  make  her  act  so,  and  turn  right 
round  later  on  ? 

The  morning  grew  warm,  and  at  last  Mrs. 
Bascom  had  to  open  the  window  to  let  out 
the  buzzing  flies  and  an  imprisoned  wild 
bee.  The  patch  was  finished  and  the  elbow 
would  serve  Tobias  as  good  as  new.  She 
laid  the  coat  over  a  chair  and  put  her  bent 
brass  thimble  into  the  paper-collar  box  that 
served  as  work-basket.  She  used  to  have  a 
queer  splint  basket  at  the  old  place,  but  it 
had  been  broken  under  something  heavier 
when  her  household  goods  were  moved. 
Some  of  the  family  had  long  been  tired  of 
hearing  that  basket  regretted,  and  another 
had  never  been  found  worthy  to  take  its 
place.  The  thimble,  the  smooth  mill  bobbin 
on  which  was  wound  black  linen  thread,  the 


12G 

dingy  lump  of  boos  wax,  and  a  smart  leather 
needle-book,  which  Johnny  had  given  her  the 
Christmas  before,  all  looked  ready  for  use, 
but  Mrs.  Bascom  pushed  them  farther  hack 
on  the  table  and  quickly  rose  to  her  feet,. 
" 'T  ain't  nine  o'clock  yet,"  she  said,  exul 
tantly.  "  I  '11  just  take  a  couple  <>'  crackers 
in  my  pocket  and  step  over  to  the  old  place. 
I  '11  take  my  time  and  be  back  soon  enough 
to  make  'em  that  pan  o'  my  hot  gingerbread 
they  '11  be  counting  on  for  supper." 

Half  an  hour  later  one  might  have  seen  a 
bent  figure  lock  the  side;  door  of  the  large 
farmhouse  carefully,  trying  the  latch  again 
and  again  to  see  if  it  were  fast,  putting  the 
key  into  a  safe  hiding-place  by  the  door,  and 
then  stepping  away  up  the  road  with  eager 
determination.  "  I  ain't  felt  so  like  a  jaunt 
this  five  year,"  said  Mercy  to  herself,  "an' 
if  Tobias  was  here  an'  Ann,  they  'd  take  all 
the  fun  out  fussin'  and  talkin',  an'  bein' 
afeard  I  'd  tire  myself,  or  wantin'  me  to  ride 
over.  I  do  like  to  be  my  own  master  once 
in  a  while." 

The  autumn  day  was  glorious,  with  a  fine 
flavor  of  fruit  and  ripeness  in  the  air.  The 
sun  was  warm,  there  was  a  eool  hree/e  irom 
the  great  hills,  and  far  off  across  the  wide 


AM  I  If    l>  I  )  PJ7 

valley  the  old  woman  could  see  her  little 
gray  house  on  its  pleasant  eastern  slope  ; 
she  could  even  trace  (he  outline  of  the  two 
small  fields  ami  large  pasture.  kk  I  done  well 
with  it,  if  I  wasn't  nothin'  hut  a  woman 
with  four  depend'nT  on  me  an'  no  means," 
said  Mercy  proudly  as  she  came  in  full  sight 
of  the  old  place.  It  was  a  long  drive  I'rom 
one  fiinn  to  the  other  by  roundabout  high 
ways,  but  there  was  a  fool  path  known  to  the 
wayfarer  which  took  a  good  piece  off  the  dis 
tance.  "  Now,  ain't  this  a  sight  better  than 
them  hustlin'  fairs?"  Mercy  asked  gleefully 
as  she  felt  herself  free  and  alone  in  the  wide 
meadow-land.  She  had  long  been  promising 
little  Johnny  to  take  him  over  to  (iran'ma's 
house,  as  she  loved  to  call  it  still.  She  could 
not  help  thinking  longingly  how  much  he 
would  enjoy  this  escapade.  "Why,  I'm 
running  away  just  like  a  young-one,  that's 
what  I  be,"  she  exclaimed,  and  then  laughed 
aloud  for  very  pleasure. 

The  weather-beaten  farmhouse  was  de 
serted  that  day,  as  its  former  owner  sus 
pected.  She  boldly  gathered  some  of  her 
valued  spice-apples,  with  an  assuring  sense 
of  proprietorship  as  she  crossed  the  last  nar- 


128  FAIR  DAT. 

row  field.  The  Browns,  man  and  wife  and 
little  boy  and  baby,  had  hied  them  early  to 
the  fair  with  nearly  the  whole  population  of 
the  countryside.  The  house  and  yard  and 
out-buildings  never  had  worn  such  an  aspect 
of  appealing  pleasantness  as  when  Mercy 
Bascom  came  near.  She  felt  as  if  she  were 
going  to  cry  for  a  minute,  and  then  hurried 
to  get  inside  the  gate.  She  saw  the  outgo 
ing  track  of  horses'  feet  with  delight,  but 
went  discreetly  to  the  door  and  knocked,  to 
make  herself  perfectly  sure  that  there  was 
no  one  left  at  home.  Out  of  breath  and 
tired  as  she  was,  she  turned  to  look  off  at  the 
view.  Yes.  there  was  Tobias's  place,  pros 
perous  and  white-painted ;  she  could  just  get 
a  glimpse  of  the  upper  roofs  and  gables.  It 
was  always  a  sorrow  and  complaint  that  a 
low  hill  kept  her  from  looking  up  at  this 
farm  from  any  of  the  windows,  but  now  that 
she  was  at  the  farm  itself  she  found  herself 
regarding  Tobias's  home  with  a  good  deal  of 
affection.  She  looked  sharply  with  an  ap 
prehension  of  fire,  but  there  was  no  whiff  of 
alarming  smoke  against  the  clear  sky. 

"  Now  I  must  git  me  a  drink  o'  that  water 
first  of  anything,"  and  she  hastened  to  the 
creaking  well-sweep  and  lowered  the  bucket. 


FAIR  DAY.  129 

There  was  the  same  rusty,  handleless  tin  dip 
per  that  she  had  left  years  before,  standing 
on  the  shelf  inside  the  well-curb.  She  was 
proud  to  find  that  the  bucket  was  no  heavier 
than  ever,  and  was  heartily  thankful  for  the 
clear  water.  There  never  was  such  a  well 
as  that,  and  it  seemed  as  if  she  had  not 
been  away  a  day.  "  What  an  old  gal  I  be," 
said  Mercy,  with  plaintive  merriment. 
"  Well,  they  ain't  made  no  great  changes 
since  I  was  here  last  spring,"  and  then  she 
went  over  and  held  her  face  close  against 
one  of  the  kitchen  windows,  and  took  a  hun 
gry  look  at  the  familiar  room.  The  bed 
room  door  was  open  and  a  new  sense  of  at 
tachment  to  the  place  filled  her  heart.  "  It 
seems  as  if  I  was  locked  out  o'  my  own 
home,"  she  whispered  as  she  looked  in. 

There  were  the  same  old  spruce  and  pine 
boards  that  she  had  scrubbed  so  many 
times  and  trodden  thin  as  she  hurried  to 
and  fro  about  her  work.  It  was  very 
strange  to  see  an  unfamiliar  chair  or  two, 
but  the  furnishings  of  a  farm  kitchen  were 
much  the  same,  and  there  was  no  great 
change.  Even  the  cradle  was  like  that  cra 
dle  in  which  her  own  children  had  been 
rocked.  She  gazed  and  gazed,  poor  old 


130  FAIR  DAY. 

Mother  Bascom,  and  forgot  the  present  as 
her  early  life  came  back  in  vivid  memories. 
At  last  she  turned  away  from  the  window 
with  a  sigh. 

The  flowers  that  she  had  planted  herself 
long  ago  had  bloomed  all  summer  in  the 
garden ;  there  were  still  some  ragged 
sailors  and  the  snowberries  and  phlox  and 
her  favorite  white  mallows,  of  which  she 
picked  herself  a  posy.  "  I  'm  glad  the  old 
place  is  so  well  took  care  of,"  she  thought, 
gratefully.  "  An'  they  've  new-silled  the  old 
barn  I  do  declare,  and  battened  the  cracks 
to  keep  the  dumb  creatures  warm.  'T  was 
a  sham-built  barn  anyways,  but  't  was  the 
best  I  could  do  when  the  child'n  needed 
something  every  handturn  o'  the  day.  It 
put  me  to  some  expense  every  year,  tinker 
ing  of  it  up  where  the  poor  lumber  warped 
and  split.  There,  I  enjoyed  try'n  to  cope 
with  things  and  gettin'  the  better  of  my  dis 
advantages  !  The  ground  's  too  rich  for  me 
over  there  to  Tobias's  ;  I  don't  want  things 
too  easy,  for  my  part.  I  feel  most  as  young 
as  ever  I  did,  and  I  ain't  agoin'  to  play 
helpless,  not  for  nobody. 

u  I  declare  for 't,  I  mean  to  come  up  here 
by  an'  by  a  spell  an'  stop  with  the  young 


FAIR  DAY.  131 

folks,  an'  give  'em  a  good  lift  with  their 
work.  I  ain't  needed  all  the  time  to  To 
bias's  now,  and  they  can  hire  help,  while 
these  can't.  I  've  been  favoring  myself  till 
I  'm  as  soft  as  an  old  hoss  that 's  right  out 
of  pasture  an'  can't  pull  two  wheels  without 
wheezin'." 

There  was  a  sense  of  companionship  in 
the  very  weather.  The  bees  were  abroad  as 
if  it  were  summer,  and  a  flock  of  little  birds 
came  fluttering  down  close  to  Mrs.  Bascom 
as  she  sat  on  the  doorstep.  She  remem 
bered  the  biscuits  in  her  pocket  and  ate 
them  with  a  hunger  she  had  seldom  known 
of  late,  but  she  threw  the  crumbs  gen 
erously  to  her  feathered  neighbors.  The 
soft  air,  the  brilliant  or  fading  colors  of  the 
wide  landscape,  the  comfortable  feeling  of 
relationship  to  her  surroundings  all  served 
to  put  good  old  Mercy  into  a  most  peaceful 
state.  There  was  only  one  thought  that 
would  not  let  her  be  quite  happy.  She 
could  not  get  her  sister-in-law  Ruth  Parlet 
out  of  her  mind.  And  strangely  enough 
the  old  grudge  did  not  present  itself  with 
the  usual  power  of  aggravation  ;  it  was  of 
their  early  friendship  and  Ruth's  good  fel 
lowship  that  memories  would  come. 


132  FAIR 

"  I  declare  for 't,  I  would  n't  own  np  to 
the  folks,  but  I  should  like  to  have  a  good 
visit  with  Ruth  if  so  be  that  we  could  set 
aside  the  past,"  she  said,  resolutely  at  last. 
"  I  never  thought  I  should  come  to  it,  but 
if  she  offered  to  make  peace  I  would  n't  do 
nothin'  to  hinder  it.  Not  to  say  but  what  I 
should  have  to  free  my  mind  on  one  or  two 
points  before  we  could  start  fair.  I  Ve 
waited  forty  year  to  make  one  remark  to 
Ruthy  Parlet.  But  there  !  we  're  gettin* 
to  be  old  folks."  Mercy  rebuked  herself 
gravely.  "  I  don't  want  to  go  off  with  hard 
feelins'  to  nobody."  Whether  this  was  the 
culmination  of  a  long,  slow  process  of  rec 
onciliation,  or  whether  Mrs.  Bascom's 
placid  satisfaction  helped  to  hasten  it  by 
many  stages,  nobody  could  say.  As  she  sat 
there  she  thought  of  many  things ;  her  life 
spread  itself  out  like  a  picture  ;  perhaps 
never  before  had  she  been  able  to  detach 
herself  from  her  immediate  occupation  in 
this  way.  She  never  had  been  aware  of 
her  own  character  and  exploits  to  such  a 
degree,  and  the  minutes  sped  by  as  she 
thought  with  deep  interest  along  the  course 
of  her  own  history.  "There  was  nothing  she 
was  ashamed  of  to  an  uncomfortable  degree 


FAIR  DAT.  133 

but  the  long  animosity  between  herself  and 
the  children's  aunt.  How  harsh  she  had 
been  sometimes  ;  she  had  even  tried  to  pre 
judice  everybody  who  listened  to  these  tales 
of  an  offender.  "  I  wa'n't  more  'n  half 
right,  now  I  come  to  look  myself  full  in  the 
face,"  said  Mercy  Bascom,  "  and  I  never 
owned  it  till  this  day." 

The  sun  was  already  past  noon,  and  the 
good  woman  dutifully  rose  and  with  instant 
consciousness  of  resource  glanced  in  at  the 
kitchen  window  to  tell  the  time  by  a  fa 
miliar  mark  on  the  floor.  "  I  need  n't  start 
just  yet,"  she  muttered.  "  Oh  my  !  how  I 
do  wish  I  could  git  in  and  poke  round  into 
every  corner  !  'T  would  make  this  day  just 
perfect." 

"  There  now  !  "  she  continued,  "  p'raps 
they  leave  the  key  just  where  our  folks 
used  to."  And  in  another  minute  the  key 
lay  in  Mercy's  worn  old  hand.  She  gave 
a  shrewd  look  along  the  road,  opened  the 
door,  which  creaked  what  may  have  been  a 
hearty  welcome,  and  stood  inside  the  dear 
old  kitchen.  She  had  not  been  in  the  house 
alone  since  she  left  it,  but  now  she  was 
nobody's  guest.  It  was  like  some  shell-fish 
finding  its  own  old  shell  again  and  settling 


134  FAIR  DAY. 

comfortably  into  the  convolutions.  Even  we 
must  not  follow  Mother  Bascom  about  from 
the  dark  cellar  to  the  hot  little  attic.  She 
was  not  curious  about  the  Browns'  worldly 
goods ;  indeed,  she  was  nearly  unconscious 
of  anything  but  the  comfort  of  going  up 
and  down  the  short  flight  of  stairs  and  look 
ing  out  of  her  own  windows  with  nobody  to 
watch. 

"  There 's  the  place  where  Tobias  scratched 
the  cupboard  door  with  a  nail.  Did  n't  I 
thrash  him  for  it  good?"  she  said  once 
with  a  proud  remembrance  of  the  time  when 
she  was  a  lawgiver  and  proprietor  and  he 
dependent. 

At  length  a  creeping  fear  stole  over  her 
lest  the  family  might  return.  She  stopped 
one  moment  to  look  back  into  the  little  bed 
room.  "  How  good  I  did  use  to  sleep  here," 
she  said.  "  I  worked  as  stout  as  I  could 
the  day  through,  and  there  wa'n't  no  wakin' 
up  by  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and 
smellin'  for  fire  and  harkin'  for  thieves  like 
I  have  to  nowadays." 

Mercy  stepped  away  down  the  long  slo 
ping  field  like  a  young  woman.  It  was  a 
long  walk  back  to  Tobias's,  even  if  one  fol- 


FAIR  DAY.  135 

lowed  the  pleasant  footpaths  across  country. 
She  was  heavy-footed,  but  entirely  light- 
hearted  when  she  came  safely  in  at  the  gate 
of  the  Bassett  place.  "  I  've  done  extra  for 
me,"  she  said  as  she  put  away  her  old  shawl 
and  bonnet ;  "  but  I  'm  goin'  to  git  the  best 
supper  Tobias's  folks  have  eat  for  a  year," 
and  so  she  did. 

"  I  've  be'n  over  to  the  old  place  to-day," 
she  announced  bravely  to  her  son,  who  had 
finished  his  work  and  his  supper  and  was 
now  tipped  back  in  his  wooden  arm-chair 
against  the  wall. 

"  You  ain't,  mother  !  "  responded  Tobias, 
with  instant  excitement.  "  Next  fall,  then, 
I  won't  take  no  for  an  answer  but  what 
you'll  go  to  the  fair  and  see  what 's  goin'. 
You  ain't  footed  it  way  over  there  ?  " 

Mother  Bascom  nodded.  "  I  have,"  she 
answered  solemnly,  a  minute  later,  as  if  the 
nod  were  not  enough.  uT'bias,  son,"  she 
added,  lowering  her  voice,  "  I  ain't  one  to 
give  in  my  rights,  but  I  was  thinkin'  it  all 
over  about  y'r  Aunt  Ruth  Parlet  "  — 

"  Now  if  that  ain't  curi's  !  "  exclaimed 
Tobias,  bringing  his  chair  down  hastily  upon 
all  four  legs.  "  I  did  n't  know  just  how 
you  'd  take  it,  mother,  but  I  see  Aunt  Ruth 


136  FAIR  DAY. 

to-day  to  the  fair,  and  she  made  everything 
o'  me  and  wanted  to  know  how  you  was,  and 
she  got  me  off  from  the  rest,  an'  says  she : 
4 1  declare  I  should  like  to  see  your  marm 
again.  I  wonder  if  she  won't  agree  to  let 
bygones  be  bygones.' ' 

"  My  sakes !  "  said  Mercy,  who  was  star 
tled  by  this  news.  "  'T  is  the  hand  o'  Provi 
dence  !  How  did  she  look,  son  ?  " 

"  A  sight  older  'n  you  look,  but  kind  of 
natural  too.  One  o'  her  sons'  wives  that 
she  's  made  her  home  with,  has  led  her  a 
dance,  folks  say." 

"  Poor  old  creatur' !  we  '11  have  her  over 
here,  if  your  folks  don't  find  fault.  I  've 
had  her  in  my  mind  "  — 

Tobias's  folks,  in  the  shape  of  his  wife 
and  little  Johnny,  appeared  from  the  outer 
kitchen.  "  I  have  n't  had  such  a  supper  I 
don't  know  when,"  repeated  the  younger 
woman  for  at  least  the  fifth  time.  "You 
must  have  been  keepin'  busy  all  day, 
Mother  Bascom." 

But  Mother  Bascom  and  Tobias  looked  at 
each  other  and  laughed. 

"I  ain't  had  such  a  good  time  I  don't 
know  when,  but  my  feet  are  all  of  a  fidget 
now,  and  I  've  got  to  git  to  bed.  I  've 


FATR  DAY.  137 

be'n  ruimin'  away  since  you  've  be'n  gone, 
Ann ! "  said  the  pleased  old  soul,  and  then 
went  away,  still  laughing,  to  her  own  room. 
She  was  strangely  excited  and  satisfied,  as 
if  she  had  at  last  paid  a  long-standing  debt. 
She  could  trudge  across  pastures  as  well  as 
anybody,  and  the  old  grudge  was  done  with. 
Mercy  hardly  noticed  how  her  fingers  trem 
bled  as  she  unhooked  the  old  gray  gown. 
The  odor  of  sweet  fern  shook  out  fresh  and 
strong  as  she  smoothed  and  laid  it  carefully 
over  a  chair.  There  was  a  little  rent  in  the 
skirt,  but  she  could  mend  it  by  daylight. 

The  great  harvest  moon  was  shining  high 
in  the  sky,  and  she  needed  no  other  light  in 
the  bedroom.  "  I  Ve  be'n  a  smart  woman 
to  work  in  my  day,  and  I  've  airnt  a  little 
pleasurin',''  said  Mother  Bascom  sleepily  to 
herself.  "  Poor  Ruthy !  so  she  looks  old, 
does  she  ?  I  'm  goin'  to  tell  her  right  out, 
't  was  I  that  spoke  first  to  Tobias." 


GOING  TO  SHREWSBURY. 

THE  train  stopped  at  a  way  station  with 
apparent  unwillingness,  and  there  was  barely 
time  for  one  elderly  passenger  to  be  hurried 
on  board  before  a  sudden  jerk  threw  her  al 
most  off  her  unsteady  old  feet  and  we  moved 
on.  At  my  first  glance  I  saw  only  a  per 
turbed  old  countrywoman,  laden  with  a  large 
basket  and  a  heavy  bundle  tied  up  in  an 
old-fashioned  bundle  -  handkerchief  ;  then  I 
discovered  that  she  was  a  friend  of  mine, 
Mrs.  Peet,  who  lived  on  a  small  farm,  sev 
eral  miles  from  the  village.  She  used  to  be 
renowned  for  good  butter  and  fresh  eggs 
and  the  earliest  cowslip  greens  ;  in  fact,  she 
always  made  the  most  of  her  farm's  slender 
resources  ;  but  it  was  some  time  since  I  had 
seen  her  drive  by  from  market  in  her  ancient 
thorough-braced  wagon. 

The  brakemaii  followed  her  into  the 
crowded  car,  also  carrying  a  number  of  pack 
ages.  I  leaned  forward  and  asked  Mrs.  Peet 
to  sit  by  me ;  it  was  a  great  pleasure  to  see 


GOING  TO  SHREWSBURY.  139 

her  again.  The  brakeman  seemed  relieved, 
and  smiled  as  he  tried  to  put  part  of  his  bur 
den  into  the  rack  overhead;  but  even  the 
flowered  carpet-bag  was  much  too  large,  and 
he  explained  that  he  would  take  care  of 
everything  at  the  end  of  the  car.  Mrs.  Peet 
was  not  large  herself,  but  with  the  big  bas 
ket,  and  the  bundle-handkerchief,  and  some 
possessions  of  my  own  we  had  very  little 
spare  room. 

"  So  this  'ere  is  what  you  call  ridin'  in  the 
cars  !  Well,  I  do  declare  !  "  said  my  friend, 
as  soon  as  she  had  recovered  herself  a  little. 
She  looked  pale  and  as  if  she  had  been  in 
tears,  but  there  was  the  familiar  gleam  of 
good  humor  in  her  tired  old  eyes. 

"  Where  in  the  world  are  you  going,  Mrs. 
Peet  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Can't  be  you  ain't  heared  about  me, 
dear  ?  "  said  she.  "  Well,  the  world  's  big 
ger  than  I  used  to  think  't  was.  I  've  broke 
up,  —  't  was  the  only  thing  to  do,  —  and  I  'm 
a-movin'  to  Shrewsbury." 

"  To  Shrewsbury  ?  Have  you  sold  the 
farm?"  I  exclaimed,  with  sorrow  and  sur 
prise.  Mrs.  Peet  was  too  old  and  too  char 
acteristic  to  be  suddenly  transplanted  from 
her  native  soil,. 


140  GOING   TO  SHREWSBURY 

"  'T  wa'n't  mine,  the  place  wa'n't."  Her 
pleasant  face  hardened  slightly.  "  He  was 
coaxed  an'  over-persuaded  into  signin'  off 
before  he  was  taken  away.  Is'iah,  son  of 
his  sister  that  married  old  Josh  Peet,  come 
it  over  him  about  his  bein'  past  work  and 
how  he  'd  do  for  him  like  an  own  son,  an' 
we  owed  him  a  little  somethin'.  I'd  paid 
off  everythin'  but  that,  an'  was  fool  enough 
to  leave  it  till  the  last,  on  account  o'  Is'iah's 
bein'  a  relation  and  not  needin'  his  pay  much 
as  some  others  did.  It 's  hurt  me  to  have 
the  place  fall  into  other  hands.  Some 
wanted  me  to  go  right  to  law ;  but 't  would  n't 
be  no  use.  Is'iah 's  smarter  'n  I  be  about 
them  matters.  You  see  he  's  got  my  name 
on  the  paper,  too ;  he  said  't  was  somethin' 
'bout  bein'  responsible  for  the  taxes.  We 
was  scant  o'  money,  an'  I  was  wore  out  with 
watchin'  an'  being  broke  o'  my  rest.  After 
my  tryin'  hard  for  risin'  forty-five  year  to 
provide  for  bein'  past  work,  here  I  be,  dear, 
here  I  be  !  I  used  to  drive  things  smart,  you 
remember.  But  we  was  fools  enough  in  '72 
to  put  about  everythin'  we  had  safe  in  the 
bank  into  that  spool  factory  that  come  to 
nothin'.  But  I  tell  ye  I  could  ha'  kept  my 
self  long  's  I  lived,  if  I  could  ha'  held  the 


GOING   TO  SHREWSBURY.  141 

place.  I  'd  parted  with  most  o'  the  wood 
land,  if  Is'iah  'd  coveted  it.  He  was  welcome 
to  that,  'cept  what  might  keep  me  in  oven- 
wood.  I  've  always  desired  to  travel  an'  see 
somethin'  o'  the  world,  but  I  've  got  the 
chance  now  when  I  don't  value  it  no  great." 

"  Shrewsbury  is  a  busy,  pleasant  place," 
I  ventured  to  say  by  way  of  comfort,  though 
my  heart  was  filled  with  rage  at  the  trickery 
of  Isaiah  Peet,  who  had  always  looked  like 
a  fox  and  behaved  like  one. 

"  Shrewsbury  's  be'n  held  up  con sid 'able 
for  me  to  smile  at,"  said  the  poor  old  soul, 
"  but  I  tell  ye,  dear,  it 's  hard  to  go  an'  live 
twenty-two  miles  from  where  you  've  always 
had  your  home  and  friends.  It  may  divert 
me,  but  it  won't  be  home.  You  might  as 
well  set  out  one  o'  my  old  apple-trees  on  the 
beach,  so  't  could  see  the  waves  come  in,  — 
there  would  n't  be  no  please  to  it." 

"  Where  are  you  going  to  live  in  Shrews 
bury  ?  "  I  asked  presently. 

"  I  don't  expect  to  stop  long,  dear  creatur'. 
I  'm  'most  seventy-six  year  old,"  and  Mrs. 
Peet  turned  to  look  at  me  with  pathetic 
amusement  in  her  honest  wrinkled  face.  "  I 
said  right  out  to  Is'iah,  before  a  roomful  o' 
the  neighbors,  that  I  expected  it  of  him  to 


142  GOING  TO  SHREWSBURY. 

git  me  home  an'  bury  me  when  my  time 
come,  and  do  it  respectable  ;  but  I  wanted 
to  airn  my  livin',  if  't  was  so  I  could,  till 
then.  He  'd  made  sly  talk,  you  see,  about 
my  electin'  to  leave  the  farm  and  go  'long 
some  o'  my  own  folks  ;  but  "  —  and  she 
whispered  this  carefully  —  "  he  did  n't  give 
me  no  chance  to  stay  there  without  hurtin' 
my  pride  and  depend  in'  on  him.  I  ain't  said 
that  to  many  folks,  but  all  must  have  sus 
pected.  A  good  sight  on  'em  's  had  money 
of  Is'iah,  though,  and  they  don't  like  to  do 
nothin'  but  take  his  part  an'  be  pretty  soft 
spoken,  fear  it  '11  git  to  his  ears.  Well, 
well,  dear,  we  '11  let  it  be  bygones,  and  not 
think  of  it  no  more ; "  but  I  saw  the  great 
tears  roll  slowly  down  her  cheeks,  and  she 
pulled  her  bonnet  forward  impatiently,  and 
looked  the  other  way. 

"  There  looks  to  be  plenty  o'  good  farmin' 
land  in  this  part  o'  the  country,"  she  said,  a 
minute  later.  "  Where  be  we  now?  See 
them  handsome  farm  buildin's ;  he  must  be 
a  well-off  man."  But  I  had  to  tell  my  com 
panion  that  we  were  still  within  the  borders 
of  the  old  town  where  we  had  both  been 
born.  Mrs.  Peet  gave  a  pleased  little  laugh, 
like  a  girl.  "  I  'm  expectin'  Shrewsbury  to 


GOING   TO  SHREWSBURY.  143 

pop  up  any  minute.  I  'm  feared  to  be  ker- 
ried  right  by.  I  wa'n't  never  aboard  of  the 
cars  before,  but  I  've  so  often  thought  about 
em'  I  don't  know  but  it  seems  natural. 
Ain't  it  jest  like  flyin'  through  the  air?  I 
can't  catcli  holt  to  see  nothin'.  Land  !  and 
here  's  my  old  cat  goin'  too,  and  never  mis- 
trustin'.  I  ain't  told  you  that  I  'd  fetched 
her." 

"  Is  she  in  that  basket  ?  "  I  inquired  with 
interest. 

"Yis,  dear.  Truth  was,  I  calc'lated  to 
have  her  put  out  o'  the  misery  o'  movin',  an 
spoke  to  one  o'  the  Barnes  boys,  an'  he 
promised  me  all  fair ;  but  he  wa'n't  there 
in  season,  an'  I  kind  o'  made  excuse  to  my 
self  to  fetch  her  along.  She  's  an'  old  crea- 
tur',  like  me,  an'  I  can  make  shift  to  keep 
her  some  way  or  'nuther ;  there  's  probably 
mice  where  we  're  goin',  an'  she  's  a  proper 
mouser  that  can  about  keep  herself  if  there 's 
any  sort  o'  chance.  'T  will  be  somethin'  o' 
home  to  see  her  goin'  an'  comin',  but  I  ex 
pect  we  're  both  on  us  goin'  to  miss  our  old 
haunts.  I  'd  love  to  know  what  kind  o' 
inousin'  there  's  goin'  to  be  for  me." 

"  You  must  n't  worry,"  I  answered,  with 
all  the  bravery  and  assurance  that  I  could 


144  GOING   TO  SHREWSBURY. 

muster.  "  Your  niece  will  be  thankful  to 
have  you  with  her.  Is  she  one  of  Mrs. 
Winn's  daughters  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  they  ain't  able ;  it 's  Sister 
Wayland's  darter  Isabella,  that  married  the 
overseer  of  the  gre't  carriage-shop.  I  ain't 
seen  her  since  just  after  she  was  married ; 
but  I  turned  to  her  first  because  I  knew  she 
was  best  able  to  have  me,  and  then  I  can  see 
just  how  the  other  girls  is  situated  and  make 
me  some  kind  of  a  plot.  I  wrote  to  Isabella, 
though  she  is  ambitious,  and  said  't  was  so 
I  'd  got  to  ask  to  come  an'  make  her  a  visit, 
an'  she  wrote  back  she  would  be  glad  to  have 
me  ;  but  she  did  n't  write  right  off,  and  her 
letter  was  scented  up  dreadful  strong  with 
some  sort  o'  essence,  and  I  don't  feel  heart 
ened  about  no  great  of  a  welcome.  But 
there,  I  've  got  eyes,  an'  I  can  see  how  't  is 
when  I  git  where  't  is.  Sister  Winn's  gals 
ain't  married,  an'  they  've  always  boarded, 
an'  worked  in  the  shop  on  trimmin's.  Isa 
bella  's  well  off ;  she  had  some  means  from 
her  father's  sister. ,  I  thought  it  all  over  by 
night  an'  day,  an'  I  recalled  that  our  folks 
kept  Sister  Wayland's  folks  all  one  winter, 
when  he  'd  failed  up  and  got  into  trouble. 
I  'm  reckonin'  on  sendin'  over  to-night  an' 


GOING   TO  SHREWSBURY.  145 

gittin'  the  Winn  gals  to  come  and  see  me 
and  advise.  Perhaps  some  on  'em  may 
know  of  somebody  that  '11  take  me  for  what 
help  I  can  give  about  house,  or  some  clever 
folks  that  have  been  lookin'  for  a  smart  cat, 
any  ways :  no,  I  don't  know  's  I  could  let 
her  go  to  strangers." 

"There  was  two  or  three  o'  the  folks 
round  home  that  acted  real  warm-hearted 
towards  me,  an'  urged  me  to  come  an'  winter 
with  'em,"  continued  the  exile;  "an'  this 
mornin'  I  wished  I  'd  agreed  to,  't  was  so 
hard  to  break  away.  But  now  it 's  done  I 
feel  more  'n  ever  it 's  best.  I  could  n't  bear 
to  live  right  in  sight  o'  the  old  place,  and 
come  spring  I  should  n't  'prove  of  nothing 
Is'iah  ondertakes  to  do  with  the  land.  Oh, 
dear  sakes !  now  it  comes  hard  with  me  not 
to  have  had  no  child'n.  When  I  was  young 
an'  workin'  hard  and  into  everything,  I  felt 
kind  of  free  an'  superior  to  them  that  was 
so  blessed,  an'  their  houses  cluttered  up  from 
mornin'  till  night,  but  I  tell  ye  it  comes 
home  to  me  now.  I  'd  be  most  willin'  to 
own  to  even  Is'iah,  mean  's  he  is ;  but  I  tell 
ye  I  'd  took  it  out  of  him  'fore  he  was  a 
grown  man,  if  there  'd  be'n  any  virtue  in 
cow-hidin'  of  him.  Folks  don't  look  like 


146  GOING   TO  SHREWSBURY. 

wild  creatur's  for  nothin'.  Is'iah  's  got  fox 
blood  in  him,  an'  p'r'haps  't  is  his  misfor 
tune.  His  own  mother  always  favored  the 
looks  of  an  old  fox,  true  's  the  world ;  she 
was  a  poor  tool,  —  a  poor  tool !  Id'  kiiow's 
we  ought  to  blame  him  same 's  we  do. 

"  I  've  always  been  a  master  proud  wo 
man,  if  I  was  riz  among  the  pastures,"  Mrs. 
Peet  added,  half  to  herself.  There  was  no 
use  in  saying  much  to  her ;  she  was  con 
scious  of  little  beside  her  own  thoughts  and 
the  smouldering  excitement  caused  by  this 
great  crisis  in  her  simple  existence.  Yet  the 
atmosphere  of  her  loneliness,  uncertainty, 
and  sorrow  was  so  touching  that  after  scold 
ing  again  at  her  nephew's  treachery,  and 
finding  the  tears  come  fast  to  my  eyes  as  she 
talked,  I  looked  intently  out  of  the  car  win 
dow,  and  tried  to  think  what  could  be  done 
for  the  poor  soul.  She  was  one  of  the  old- 
time  people,  and  I  hated  to  have  her  go  away ; 
but  even  if  she  could  keep  her  home  she 
would  soon  be  too  feeble  to  live  there  alone, 
and  some  definite  plan  must  be  made  for  her 
comfort.  Farms  in  that  neighborhood  were 
not  valuable.  Perhaps  through  the  agency 
of  the  law  and  quite  in  secret,  Isaiah  Peet 
could  be  forced  to  give  up  his  unrighteous 


GOING   TO  SHREWSBURY.  147 

claim.  Perhaps,  too,  the  Winn  girls,  who 
were  really  no  longer  young,  might  have 
saved  something,  and  would  come  home 
again.  But  it  was  easy  to  make  such  pic 
tures  in  one's  mind,  and  I  must  do  what  I 
could  through  other  people,  for  I  was  just 
leaving  home  for  a  long  time.  I  wondered 
sadly  about  Mrs.  Feet's  future,  and  the  am 
bitious  Isabella,  and  the  favorite  Sister 
Wimi's  daughters,  to  whom,  with  all  their 
kindliness  of  heart,  the  care  of  so  old  and 
perhaps  so  dependent  an  aunt  might  seem 
impossible.  The  truth  about  life  in  Shrews 
bury  would  soon  be  known  ;  more  than  half 
the  short  journey  was  already  past. 

To  my  great  pleasure,  my  fellow-traveler 
now  began  to  forget  her  own  troubles  in  look 
ing  about  her.  She  was  an  alert,  quickly 
interested  old  soul,  and  this  was  a  bit  of  neu 
tral  ground  between  the  farm  and  Shrews 
bury,  where  she  was  unattached  ^and  irre 
sponsible.  She  had  lived  through  the  last 
tragic  moments  of  her  old  life,  and  felt  a 
certain  relief,  and  Shrewsbury  might  be  as 
far  away  as  the  other  side  of  the  Rocky 
Mountains  for  all  the  consciousness  she  had 
of  its  real  existence.  She  was  simply  a  trav 
eler  for  the  time  being,  and  began  to  com- 


148  GOING   TO  SHREWSBURY. 

ment,  with  delicious  phrases  and  shrewd 
understanding  of  human  nature,  on  two  or 
three  persons  near  us  who  attracted  her 
attention. 

"  Where  do  you  s'pose  they  be  all  goin'  ?  " 
she  asked  contemptuously.  "There  ain't 
none  on  'em  but  what  looks  kind  o'  respect 
able.  I  '11  warrant  they  've  left  work  to 
home  they  'd  ought  to  be  doin'.  I  knowed, 
if  ever  I  stopped  to  think,  that  cars  was 
hived  full  o'  folks,  an'  wa'n't  run  to  an'  fro 
for  nothin'  ;  but  these  can't  be  quite  up  to 
the  average,  be  they  ?  Some  on  'em  's  real 
thrif 'less  ?  guess  they  've  be'n  shoved  out  o' 
the  last  place,  an'  goin'  to  try  the  next  one, 
—  like  me,  I  suppose  you  '11  want  to  say ! 
Jest  see  that  flauntin'  old  creatur'  that  looks 
like  a  stopped  clock.  There !  everybody 
can't  be  o'  one  goodness,  even  preachers." 

I  was  glad  to  have  Mrs.  Peet  amused,  and 
we  were  as  cheerful  as  we  could  be  for  a  few 
minutes.  She  said  earnestly  that  she  hoped 
to  be  forgiven  for  such  talk,  but  there  were 
some  kinds  of  folks  in  the  cars  that  she 
never  had  seen  before.  But  when  the  con 
ductor  came  to  take  her  ticket  she  relapsed 
into  her  first  state  of  mind,  and  was  at  a 
loss. 


GOING   TO  SHREWSBURY.  149 

"  You  '11  have  to  look  after  me,  dear,  when 
we  get  to  Shrewsbury,"  she  said,  after  we 
had  spent  some  distracted  moments  in  hunt 
ing  for  the  ticket,  and  the  cat  had  almost 
escaped  from  the  basket,  and  the  bundle- 
handkerohief  had  become  untied  and  all  its 
miscellaneous  contents  scattered  about  our 
laps  and  the  floor.  It  was  a  touching  collec 
tion  of  the  last  odds  and  ends  of  Mrs.  Feet's 
housekeeping :  some  battered  books,  and 
singed  holders  for  flatirons,  and  the  faded 
little  shoulder  shawl  that  I  had  seen  her 
wear  many  a  day  about  her  bent  shoulders. 
There  were  her  old  tin  match-box  spilling 
all  its  matches,  and  a  goose-wing  for  brush 
ing  up  ashes,  and  her  much-thumbed  Leav- 
itt's  Almanac.  It  was  most  pathetic  to  see 
these  poor  trifles  out  of  their  places.  At 
last  the  ticket  was  found  in  her  left-hand 
woolen  glove,  where  her  stiff,  work-worn 
hand  had  grown  used  to  the  feeling  of  it. 

"  I  should  n't  wonder,  now,  if  I  come  to 
like  living  over  to  Shrewsbury  first-rate," 
she  insisted,  turning  to  me  with  a  hopeful, 
eager  look  to  see  if  I  differed.  "  You  see 
't  won't  be  so  tough  for  me  as  if  I  had  n't 
always  felt  it  lurking  within  me  to  go  off 
some  day  or  'nother  an'  see  how  other  folks 


150  GOING   TO  SHREWSBURY. 

did  things.  I  do'  know  but  what  the  Winn 
gals  have  laid  up  somethin'  sufficient  for  us 
to  take  a  house,  with  the  little  mite  I  've  got 
by  me.  I  might  keep  house  for  us  all,  'stead 
o'  boardin'  round  in  other  folks'  houses. 
That  I  ain't  never  been  demeaned  to,  but  I 
dare  say  I  should  find  it  pleasant  in  some 
ways.  Town  folks  has  got  the  upper  hand 
o'  country  folks,  but  with  all  their  work  an' 
pride  they  can't  make  a  dandelion.  I  do' 
know  the  times  when  I  Ve  set  out  to  wash 
Monday  mornin's,  an'  tied  out  the  line  be 
twixt  the  old  pucker-pear  tree  and  the  corner 
o'  the  barn,  an'  thought,  4  Here  I  be  with  the 
same  kind  o'  week's  work  right  over  again.' 
I  'd  wonder  kind  o'  f  'erce  if  I  could  n't  git 
out  of  it  noways ;  an'  now  here  I  be  out  of  it, 
and  an  uprooteder  creatur'  never  stood  on 
the  airth.  Just  as  I  got  to  feel  I  had  some- 
thin'  ahead  come  that  spool-factory  business. 
There  !  you  know  he  never  was  a  forehanded 
man ;  his  health  was  slim,  and  he  got  dis 
couraged  pretty  nigh  before  ever  he  begun. 
I  hope  he  don't  know  I  'm  turned  out  o'  the 
old  place.  '  Is'iah  's  well  off ;  he  '11  do  the 
right  thing  by  ye,'  says  he.  But  my!  I 
turned  hot  all  over  when  I  found  out  what 
I  'd  put  my  name  to,  —  me  that  had  always 


GOING   TO  SHREWSBURY.  151 

be'n  counted  a  smart  woman !  I  did  under 
take  to  read  it  over,  but  I  could  n't  sense  it. 
I  've  told  all  the  folks  so  when  they  laid  it 
off  on  to  me  some  :  but  hand-writin'  is  awful 
tedious  readin'  and  my  head  felt  that  day  as 
if  the  works  was  gone." 

"  I  ain't  goin'  to  sag  on  to  nobody,"  she 
assured  me  eagerly,  as  the  train  rushed 
along.  "  I  've  got  more  work  in  me  now 
than  folks  expects  at  my  age.  I  may  be  con- 
sid'able  use  to  Isabella.  She  's  got  a  family, 
an'  I  '11  take  right  holt  in  the  kitchen  or 
with  the  little  gals.  She  had  four  on  'em, 
last  I  heared.  Isabella  was  never  one  that 
liked  house-work.  Little  gals  !  I  do'  know 
now  but  what  they  must  be  about  grown, 
time  doos  slip  away  so.  I  expect  I  shall 
look  outlandish  to  'em.  But  there !  every 
body  knows  me  to  home,  an'  nobody  knows 
me  to  Shrewsbury  ;  't  won't  make  a  mite  o' 
difference,  if  I  take  holt  willin'." 

I  hoped,  as  I  looked  at  Mrs.  Peet,  that 
she  would  never  be  persuaded  to  cast  off  the 
gathered  brown  silk  bonnet  and  the  plain 
shawl  that  she  had  worn  so  many  years ; 
but  Isabella  might  think  it  best  to  insist 
upon  more  modern  fashions.  Mrs.  Peet  sug 
gested,  as  if  it  were  a  matter  of  little  conse- 


152  GOING  TO  SHREWSBURY. 

quence,  that  she  had  kept  it  in  mind  to  buy 
some  mourning ;  but  there  were  other  things 
to  be  thought  of  first,  and  so  she  had  let  it 
go  until  winter,  any  way,  or  until  she  should 
be  fairly  settled  in  Shrewsbury. 

"  Are  your  nieces  expecting  you  by  this 
train  ?  "  I  was  moved  to  ask,  though  with 
all  the  good  soul's  ready  talk  and  appealing 
manner  I  could  hardly  believe  that  she  was 
going  to  Shrewsbury  for  more  than  a  visit ; 
it  seemed  as  if  she  must  return  to  the  worn 
old  farmhouse  over  by  the  sheep-lands. 
She  answered  that  one  of  the  Barnes  boys 
had  written  a  letter  for  her  the  day  before, 
and  there  was  evidently  little  uneasiness 
about  her  first  reception. 

We  drew  near  the  junction  where  I  must 
leave  her  within  a  mile  of  the  town.  The 
cat  was  clawing  indignantly  at  the  basket, 
and  her  mistress  grew  as  impatient  of  the 
car.  She  began  to  look  very  old  and  pale, 
my  poor  fellow-traveler,  and  said  that  she 
felt  dizzy,  going  so  fast.  Presently  the 
friendly  red -cheeked  young  brakeman  came 
along,  bringing  the  carpet-bag  and  other 
possessions,  and  insisted  upon  taking  the 
alarmed  cat  beside,  in  spite  of  an  aggressive 
paw  that  had  worked  its  way  through  the 


GOING   TO  SHREWSBURY.  153 

wicker  prison.  Mrs.  Peet  watched  her 
goods  disappear  with  suspicious  eyes,  and 
clutched  her  bundle-handkerchief  as  if  it 
might  be  all  that  she  could  save.  Then  she 
anxiously  got  to  her  feet,  much  too  soon, 
and  when  I  said  good-by  to  her  at  the  car 
door  she  was  ready  to  cry.  I  pointed  to  the 
car  which  she  was  to  take  next  on  the 
branch  line  of  railway,  and  I  assured  her 
that  it  was  only  a  few  minutes'  ride  to 
Shrewsbury,  and  that  I  felt  certain  she 
would  find  somebody  waiting.  The  sight  of 
that  worn,  thin  figure  adventuring  alone 
across  the  platform  gave  my  heart  a  sharp 
pang  as  the  train  carried  me  away. 

Some  of  the  passengers  who  sat  near 
asked  me  about  my  old  friend  with  great 
sympathy,  after  she  had  gone.  There  was  a 
look  of  tragedy  about  her,  and  indeed  it 
had  been  impossible  not  to  get  a  good  deal 
of  her  history,  as  she  talked  straight  on  in 
the  same  tone,  when  we  stopped  at  a  station, 
as  if  the  train  were  going  at  full  speed, 
and  some  of  her  remarks  caused  pity  and 
amusements  by  turns.  At  the  last  minute 
she  said,  with  deep  self-reproach,  "  Why,  I 
have  n't  asked  a  word  about  your  folks  • 
but  you  'd  ought  to  excuse  such  an  old  stray 
hen  as  I  be." 


154  GOING   TO  SHREWSBURY. 

In  the  spring  I  was  driving  by  on  what 
the  old  people  of  my  native  town  call  the 
sheep-lands  road,  and  the  sight  of  Mrs. 
Peet's  former  home  brought  our  former 
journey  freshly  to  my  mind.  I  had  last 
heard  from  her  just  after  she  got  to  Shrews 
bury,  when  she  had  sent  me  a  message. 

"  Have  you  ever  heard  how  she  got  on  ?  " 
I  eagerly  asked  my  companion. 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  that  I  met  her  in 
Shrewsbury  High  Street  one  day  ?  "  I  was 
answered.  "  She  seemed  perfectly  de 
lighted  with  everything.  Her  nieces  have 
laid  up  a  good  bit  of  money,  and  are  soon 
to  leave  the  mill,  and  most  thankful  to  have 
old  Mrs.  Peet  with  them.  Somebody  told 
me  that  they  wished  to  buy  the  farm  here, 
and  come  back  to  live,  but  she  would  n't 
hear  of  it,  and  thought  they  would  miss  too 
many  privileges.  She  has  been  going  to 
concerts  and  lectures  this  winter,  and  insists 
that  Isaiah  did  her  a  good  turn." 

We  both  laughed.  My  own  heart  was  filled 
with  joy,  for  the  uncertain,  lonely  face  of 
this  homeless  old  woman  had  often  haunted 
me.  The  rain  -  blackened  little  house  did 
certainly  look  dreary,  and  a  whole  lifetime 
of  patient  toil  had  left  few  traces.  The 


GOING   TO  SHREWSBURY.  155 

pucker-pear  tree  was  in  full  bloom,  however, 
and  gave  a  welcome  gayety  to  the  deserted 
door-yard. 

A  little  way  beyond  we  met  Isaiah  Peet, 
the  prosperous  money  -  lender,  who  had 
cheated  the  old  woman  of  her  own.  I  fan 
cied  that  he  looked  somewhat  ashamed,  as 
he  recognized  us.  To  my  surprise,  he 
stopped  his  horse  in  most  social  fashion. 

"  Old  Aunt  Peet  's  passed  away,"  he  in 
formed  me  briskly.  "  She  had  a  shock, 
and  went  right  off  sudden  yisterday  fore 
noon.  I  'm  about  now  tendin'  to  the  fu 
neral  'rangements.  She  's  be'n  extry  smart, 
they  say,  all  winter,  —  out  to  meetin'  last 
Sabbath  ;  never  enjoyed  herself  so  complete 
as  she  has  this  past  month.  She  'd  be'n  a 
very  hard-workin'  woman.  Her  folks  was 
glad  to  have  her  there,  and  give  her  every 
attention.  The  place  here  never  was  good 
for  nothin'.  The  old  gen'leman, — uncle, 
you  know,  —  he  wore  hisself  out  tryin'  to 
make  a  livin'  off  from  it." 

There  was  an  ostentatious  sympathy  and 
half-suppressed  excitement  from  bad  news 
which  were  quite  lost  upon  us,  and  we  did 
not  linger  to  hear  much  more.  It  seemed 
to  me  as  if  I  had  known  Mrs.  Peet  better 


156  GOING   TO  SHREWSBURY. 

than  any  one  else  had  known  her.  I  had 
counted  upon  seeing  her  again,  and  hearing 
her  own  account  of  Shrewsbury  life,  its 
pleasures  and  its  limitations.  I  wondered 
what  had  become  of  the  cat  and  the  con 
tents  of  the  faded  bundle-handkerchief. 


THE  TAKING  OF  CAPTAIN  BALK 
I. 

THERE  was  a  natural  disinclination  to  the 
cares  of  housekeeping  in  the  mind  of  Captain 
Ball,  and  he  would  have  left  the  sea  much 
earlier  in  life  if  he  had  not  liked  much  bet 
ter  to  live  on  board  ship.  A  man  was  his 
own  master  there,  and  meddlesome  neigh 
bors  and  parsons  and  tearful  women-folks 
could  be  made  to  keep  their  distance.  But 
as  years  went  on,  and  the  extremes  of 
weather  produced  much  affliction  in  the 
shape  of  rheumatism,  this,  and  the  decline 
of  the  merchant  service,  and  the  degeneracy 
of  common  seamen,  forced  Captain  Ball  to 
come  ashore  for  good.  He  regretted  that 
he  could  no  longer  follow  the  sea,  and,  in 
spite  of  many  alleviations,  grumbled  at  his 
hard  fate.  He  might  have  been  condemned 
to  an  inland  town,  but  in  reality  his  house 
was  within  sight  of  tide-water,  and  he  found 
plenty  of  companionship  in  the  decayed  sea- 


158   THE  TAKING  OF  CAPTAIN  BALL. 

port  where  he  had  been  born  and  bred. 
There  were  several  retired  shipmasters  who 
closely  approached  his  own  rank  and  dig 
nity.  They  all  gave  other  excuses  than 
that  of  old  age  and  infirmity  for  being  out 
of  business,  took  a  sober  satisfaction  in 
their  eleven  o'clock  bitters,  and  discussed 
the  shipping  list  of  the  morning  paper  with 
far  more  interest  than  the  political  or  gen 
eral  news  of  the  other  columns. 

While  Captain  Asaph  Ball  was  away  on  his 
long  voyages  he  had  left  his  house  in  charge 
of  an  elder  sister,  who  was  joint  owner. 
She  was  a  grim  old  person,  very  stern  in 
matters  of  sectarian  opinion,  and  the  cap 
tain  recognized  in  his  heart  of  hearts  that 
she  alone  was  his  superior  officer.  He  en 
deavored  to  placate  her  with  generous  offer 
ings  of  tea  and  camel's-hair  scarfs  and  East 
Indian  sweetmeats,  not  to  speak  of  unneces 
sary  and  sometimes  very  beautiful  china  for 
the  parties  that  she  never  gave,  and  hand 
some  dress  patterns  with  which  she  scorned 
to  decorate  her  sinful  shape  of  clay.  She 
pinched  herself  to  the  verge  of  want  in  or 
der  to  send  large  sums  of  money  to  the 
missionaries,  but  she  saved  the  captain's 
money  for  him  against  the  time  when  his 


THE  TAKING  OF  CAPTAIN  BALL.   159 

willful  lavishness  and  improvidence  might 
find  him  a  poor  man.  She  was  always  look 
ing  forward  to  the  days  when  he  would  be 
aged  and  forlorn,  that  burly  seafaring 
brother  of  hers.  She  loved  to  remind  him 
of  his  latter  end,  and  in  writing  her  long 
letters  that  were  to  reach  him  in  foreign 
ports,  she  told  little  of  the  neighborhood 
news  and  results  of  voyages,  but  bewailed, 
in  page  after  page,  his  sad  condition  of  im 
penitence  and  the  shortness  of  time.  The 
captain  would  rather  have  faced  a  muti 
nous  crew  any  day  than  his  sister's  solemn 
statements  of  this  sort,  but  he  loyally  read 
them  through  with  heavy  sighs,  and  worked 
himself  into  his  best  broadcloth  suit,  at 
least  once  while  he  lay  in  port,  to  go  to 
church  on  Sunday,  out  of  good  New  Eng 
land  habit  and  respect  to  her  opinions.  It 
was  not  his  sister's  principles  but  her 
phrases  that  the  captain  failed  to  com 
prehend.  Sometimes  when  he  returned  to 
his  ship  he  took  pains  to  write  a  letter  to 
dear  sister  Ann,  and  to  casually  mention 
the  fact  of  his  attendance  upon  public 
worship,  and  even  to  recall  the  text  and 
purport  of  the  sermon.  He  was  apt  to  fall 
asleep  in  his  humble  place  at  the  very  back 


160      THE   TAKING   OF  CAPTAIN  BALL. 

of  the  church,  and  his  report  of  the  services 
would  have  puzzled  a  far  less  keen  theolo 
gian  than  Miss  Ann  Ball.  In  fact  these 
poor  makeshifts  of  religious  interest  did 
not  deceive  her,  and  the  captain  had  an  un 
easy  consciousness  that,  to  use  his  own  ex 
pression,  the  thicker  he  laid  on  the  words, 
the  quicker  she  saw  through  them.  And 
somehow  or  other  that  manly  straightfor 
wardness  and  honesty  of  his,  that  free 
handed  generosity,  that  true  unselfishness 
which  made  him  stick  by  his  ship  when  the 
crew  had  run  away  from  a  poor  black  cook 
who  was  taken  down  with  the  yellow-fever, 
which  made  him  nurse  the  frightened  beg 
gar  as  tenderly  as  a  woman,  and  bring  him 
back  to  life,  and  send  him  packing  after 
ward  with  plenty  of  money  in  his  pocket 
—  all  these  fine  traits  that  made  Captain 
Ball  respected  in  every  port  where  his  loud 
voice  and  clumsy  figure  and  bronzed  face 
were  known,  seemed  to  count  for  nothing 
with  the  stern  sister.  At  least  her  younger 
brother  thought  so.  But  when,  a  few  years 
after  he  came  ashore  for  good,  she  died  and 
left  him  alone  in  the  neat  old  white  house, 
which  his  instinctive  good  taste  and  his 
father's  before  him  had  made  a  museum  of 


THE  TAKING  OF  CAPTAIN  BALL.   161 

East  Indian  treasures,  he  found  all  his  let 
ters  stored  away  with  loving  care  after  they 
had  been  read  and  reread  into  tatters,  and 
among  her  papers  such  touching  expressions 
of  love  and  pride  and  longing  for  his  soul's 
good,  that  poor  Captain  Asaph  broke  down 
altogether  and  cried  like  a  school-boy. 
She  had  saved  every  line  of  newspaper 
which  even  mentioned  his  ships'  names. 
She  had  loved  him  deeply  in  the  repressed 
New  England  fashion,  that  under  a  gray 
and  forbidding  crust  of  manner,  like  a 
chilled  lava  bed,  hides  glowing  fires  of  loy 
alty  and  devotion. 

Sister  Ann  was  a  princess  among  house 
keepers,  and  for  some  time  after  her  death 
the  captain  was  a  piteous  mourner  indeed. 
No  growing  school-boy  could  be  more  shy 
and  miserable  in  the  presence  of  women 
than  he,  though  nobody  had  a  readier  friend 
liness  or  more  off-hand  sailor  ways  among 
men.  The  few  intimate  family  friends  who 
came  to  his  assistance  at  the  time  of  his  sis 
ter's  illness  and  death  added  untold  misery 
to  the  gloomy  situation.  Yet  he  received 
the  minister  with  outspoken  gratitude  in 
spite  of  that  worthy  man's  trepidation. 
Everybody  said  that  poor  Captain  Ball 


162   THE  TAKING  OF  CAPTAIN  BALL. 

looked  as  if  his  heart  was  broken.  "  I  tell 
ye  I  feel  as  if  I  was  tied  in  a  bag  of  fleas," 
said  the  distressed  mariner,  and  his  pastor 
turned  away  to  cough,  hoping  to  hide  the 
smile  that  would  come.  "  Widders  an'  old 
maids,  they  're  busier  than  the  divil  in  a 
gale  o'  wind,"  grumbled  the  captain.  "  Poor 
Ann,  she  was  worth  every  one  of  'em  lashed 
together,  and  here  you  find  me  with  a  head 
wind  every  way  I  try  to  steer."  The  min 
ister  was  a  man  at  any  rate  ;  his  very  pres 
ence  was  a  protection. 

Some  wretched  days  went  by  while  Cap 
tain  Ball  tried  to  keep  his  lonely  house 
with  the  assistance  of  one  Silas  Jenkins, 
who  had  made  several  voyages  with  him  as 
cook,  but  they  soon  proved  that  the  best  of 
sailors  may  make  the  worst  of  housekeepers. 
Life  looked  darker  and  darker,  and  when, 
one  morning,  Silas  inadvertently  overheated 
and  warped  the  new  cooking  stove,  which 
had  been  the  pride  of  Miss  Ball's  heart,  the 
breakfastless  captain  dismissed  him  in  a  fit 
of  blind  rage.  The  captain  was  first  cross 
and  then  abject  when  he  went  hungry,  and 
in  this  latter  stage  was  ready  to  abase  him 
self  enough  to  recall  Widow  Sparks,  his 
sister's  lieutenant,  who  lived  close  by  in 


THE   TAKING   OF  CAPTAIN  BALL.     163 

Ropewalk  Lane,  forgetting  that  lie  had 
driven  her  into  calling  him  an  old  hog  two 
days  after  the  funeral.  He  groaned  aloud 
as  he  thought  of  her,  but  reached  for  his 
hat  and  cane,  when  there  came  a  gentle 
feminine  rap  at  the  door. 

"  Let  'em  knock  !  "  grumbled  the  cap- 
tain,  angrily,  but  after  a  moment's  reflection, 
he  scowled  and  went  and  lifted  the  latch. 

There  stood  upon  the  doorstep  a  middle- 
aged  woman,  with  a  pleasant  though  deter 
mined  face.  The  captain  scowled  again, 
but  involuntarily  opened  his  fore-door  a 
little  wider. 

"  Capt'in  Asaph  Ball,  I  presume  ?  " 
"  The  same,"  answered  the  captain. 
"  I  've   been   told,  sir,   that  you  need  a 
housekeeper,  owing  to  recent  affliction." 

There  was  a  squally  moment  of  resistance 
in  the  old  sailor's  breast,  but  circumstances 
seemed  to  be  wrecking  him  on  a  lee  shore. 
Down  came  his  flag  on  the  run. 

"  I  can't  say  but  what  I  do,  ma'am,"  and 
with  lofty  courtesy,  such  as  an  admiral 
should  use  to  his  foe  of  equal  rank,  the  mas 
ter  of  the  house  signified  that  his  guest 
might  enter.  When  they  were  seated  oppo 
site  each  other  in  the  desolate  sitting-room 


164   THE  TAKING  OF  CAPTAIN  BALL. 

he  felt  himself  the  weaker  human  being  of 
the  two.  Five  years  earlier,  and  he  would 
have  put  to  sea  before  the  week's  end,  if 
only  to  gain  the  poor  freedom  of  a  coastwise 
lime  schooner. 

"  Well,  speak  up,  can't  ye  ?  "  he  said, 
trying  to  laugh.  "  Tell  me  what 's  the  tax, 
and  how  much  you  can  take  hold  and  do, 
without  coming  to  me  for  orders  every 
hand's  turn  o'  the  day.  I  Ve  had  Silas  Jin- 
kins  here,  one  o'  my  old  ship's  cooks  ;  he 
served  well  at  sea,  and  I  thought  he  had 
some  head  ;  but  we  've  been  beat,  I  tell  ye, 
and  you  '11  find  some  work  to  put  things 
ship-shape.  He 's  gitting  in  years,  that 's 
the  trouble ;  I  ought  n't  to  have  called  on 
him,"  said  Captain  Ball,  anxious  to  maintain 
even  so  poorly  the  dignity  of  his  sex. 

"  I  like  your  looks ;  you  seem  a  good 
steady  hand,  with  no  nonsense  about  ye." 
He  cast  a  shy  glance  at  his  companion,  and 
would  not  have  believed  that  any  woman 
could  have  come  to  the  house  a  stranger,  and 
have  given  him  such  an  immediate  feeling  of 
confidence  and  relief. 

" 1  '11  tell  ye  what 's  about  the  worst  of 
the  matter,"  and  the  captain  pulled  a  letter 
out  of  his  deep  coat  pocket.  His  feelings 


THE   TAKING   OF  CAPTAIN  BALL.      165 

had  been  pent  up  too  long.  At  the  sight 
of  the  pretty  handwriting  and  aggravatingly 
soft-spoken  sentences,  Asaph  Ball  was  forced 
to  inconsiderate  speech.  The  would-be 
housekeeper  pushed  back  her  rocking-chair 
as  he  began,  and  tucked  her  feet  under,  be 
side  settling  her  bonnet  a  little,  as  if  she 
were  close-reefed  and  anchored  to  ride  out 
the  gale. 

"  I  'm  in  most  need  of  an  able  person," 
he  roared,  "  011  account  of  this  letter's  settin' 
me  adrift  about  knowing  what  to  do.  'T  is 
from  a  gal  that  wants  to  come  and  make 
her  home  here.  Land  sakes  alive,  puts  her 
self  right  f orrard  !  I  don't  want  her,  an9  I 
won't  have  her.  She  may  be  a  great-niece  ; 
I  don't  say  she  ain't ;  but  what  should  I  do 
with  one  o'  them  jiggetin'  gals  about  ?  In 
the  name  o'  reason,  why  should  I  be  set  out 
o'  my  course  ?  I  'm  left  at  the  mercy  o'  you 
women-folks,"  and  the  captain  got  stiffly  to 
his  feet.  "  If  you  've  had  experience,  an' 
think  you  can  do  for  me,  why,  stop  an'  try, 
an'  I  '11  be  much  obleeged  to  ye.  You  '11 
find  me  a  good  provider,  and  we  '11  let  one 
another  alone,  and  get  along  some  way  or 
'nother." 

The  captain's  voice  fairly  broke  ;  he  had 


166   THE  TAKING  OF  CAPTAIN  BALL. 

been  speaking  as  if  to  a  brother  man;  he 
was  tired  out  and  perplexed.  His  sister 
Ann  had  saved  him  so  many  petty  trials, 
and  now  she  was  gone.  The  poor  man  had 
watched  her  suffer  and  seen  her  die,  and  he 
was  as  tender-hearted  and  as  lonely  as  a 
child,  however  he  might  bluster.  Even 
such  infrequent  matters  as  family  letters 
had  been  left  to  his  busy  sister.  It  hap 
pened  that  they  had  inherited  a  feud  with 
an  elder  half-brother's  family  in  the  West, 
though  the  captain  was  well  aware  of  the 
existence  of  this  forth-putting  great -niece, 
who  had  been  craftily  named  for  Miss  Ann 
Ball,  and  so  gained  a  precarious  hold  on  her 
affections  ;  but  to  harbor  one  of  the  race  was 
to  consent  to  the  whole.  Captain  Ball  was 
not  a  man  to  bring  down  upon  himself  an 
army  of  interferers  and  plunderers,  and  he 
now  threw  down  the  poor  girl's  well-meant 
letter  with  an  outrageous  expression  of  his 
feelings.  Then  he  felt  a  silly  weakness,  and 
hastened  to  wipe  his  eyes  with  his  pocket- 
handkerchief. 

"  I  've  been  beat,  I  tell  ye,"  he  said  bro 
kenly. 

There  was  a  look  of  apparent  sympathy, 
mingled  with  victory,  on  the  housekeeper's 


THE  TAKING  OF  CAPTAIN  BALL.   167 

face.  Perhaps  she  had  known  some  other 
old  sailor  of  the  same  make,  for  she  rose 
and  turned  her  face  aside  to  look  out  of  the 
window  until  the  captain's  long  upper  lip 
had  time  to  draw  itself  straight  and  stern 
again.  Plainly  she  was  a  woman  of  experi 
ence  and  discretion. 

"  I  '11  take  my  shawl  and  bunnit  right  off, 
sir,"  she  said,  in  a  considerate  little  voice. 
"  I  see  a-plenty  to  do ;  there  '11  be  time 
enough  after  I  get  you  your  dinner  to  see  to 
havin'  my  trunk  here  ;  but  it  need  n't  stay  a 
day  longer  than  you  give  the  word." 

"  That 's  clever,"  said  the  captain.  "  I  '11 
step  right  down  street  and  get  us  a  good 
fish,  an'  you  can  fry  it  or  make  us  a  chow 
der,  just  which  you  see  fit.  It  now  wants 
a  little  of  eleven  "  —  and  an  air  of  pleased 
anticipation  lighted  his  face  —  "I  must  be 
on  my  way." 

"If  it 's  all  the  same  to  you,  I  guess  we 
don't  want  no  company  till  we  get  to  rights 
a  little.  You're  kind  of  tired  out,  sir," 
said  the  housekeeper,  feelingly.  "  By-and- 
by  you  can  have  the  young  girl  come  an' 
make  you  a  visit,  and  either  let  her  go  or 
keep  her,  'cordin'  as  seems  fit.  I  may  not 
turn  out  to  suit." 


168   THE  TAKING  OF  CAPTAIN  BALL. 

"  What  may  I  call  you,  ma'am  ? "  in 
quired  Captain  Ball.  "Mis'  French?  Not 
one  o'  them  Fleet  Street  Frenches  ?  "  (sus 
piciously).  "  Oh,  come  from  Massachu 
setts  way  !  "  (with  relief). 

"  I  was  stopping  with  some  friends  that 
had  a  letter  from  some  o'  the  minister's  folks 
here,  and  they  told  how  bad  off  you  was," 
said  Mrs.  French,  modestly.  "  I  was  out  of 
employment,  an'  I  said  to  myself  that  I 
should  feel  real  happy  to  go  and  do  for  that 
Captain  Ball.  He  knows  what  he  wants, 
and  I  know  what  I  want,  and  no  flummery." 

"  You  know  somethin'  o'  life,  I  do  de 
clare,"  and  the  captain  fairly  beamed.  "  I 
never  was  called  a  hard  man  at  sea,  but  I 
like  to  give  my  orders,  and  have  folks  foller 
'em.  If  it  was  women-folks  that  wrote,  they 
may  have  set  me  forth  more  'n  ordinary.  I 
had  every  widder  and  single  woman  in  town 
here  while  Ann  lay  dead,  and  my  natural 
feelin's  were  all  worked  up.  I  see  'em 
dressed  up  and  smirkin'  and  settin'  their 
nets  to  ketch  me  when  I  was  in  an  extremity. 
I  would  n't  give  a  kentle  o'  sp'iled  fish  for 
the  whole  on  'em.  I  ain't  a  marryin'  man, 
there 's  once  for  all  for  ye,"  and  the  old 
sailor  stepped  toward  the  door  with  some 
temper. 


THE   TAKING   OF  CAPTAIN  BALL.     169 

"  Ef  you  '11  write  to  the  young  woman, 
sir,  just  to  put  off  comin'  for  a  couple  or 
three  weeks,"  suggested  Mrs.  French. 

"  This  afternoon,  ma'am,"  said  the  cap 
tain,  as  if  it  were  the  ay,  ay,  sir,  of  an  able 
seaman  who  sprang  to  his  duty  of  reefing 
the  main-topsail. 

Captain  Ball  walked  down  to  the  fish  shop 
with  stately  steps  and  measured  taps  of  his 
heavy  cane.  He  stopped  on  the  way,  a  little 
belated,  and  assured  two  or  three  retired 
ship-masters  that  he  had  manned  the  old 
brig  complete  at  last ;  he  even  gave  a  hand 
some  wink  of  his  left  eye  over  the  edge  of  a 
glass,  and  pronounced  his  morning  grog  to 
be  A  No.  1,  prime. 

Mrs.  French  picked  up  her  gown  at  each 
side  with  thumb  and  finger,  and  swept  the 
captain  a  low  courtesy  behind  his  back  as  he 
went  away;  then  she  turned  up  the  afore 
said  gown  and  sought  for  one  of  the  lamented 
Miss  Ann  Ball's  calico  aprons,  and  if  ever  a 
New  England  woman  did  a  morning's  work 
in  an  hour,  it  was  this  same  Mrs.  French. 

"  'T  ain't  every  one  knows  how  to  make 
what  /  call  a  chowder,"  said  the  captain, 
pleased  and  replete,  as  he  leaned  back  in  his 
chair  after  dinner.  "  Mis'  French,  you  shall 


170   THE  TAKING  OF  CAPTAIN  BALL. 

have  everything  to  do  with,  an'  I  ain't  no 
kitchen  colonel  myself  to  bother  ye." 

There  was  a  new  subject  for  gossip  in  that 
seaport  town.  More  than  one  woman  had 
felt  herself  to  be  a  fitting  helpmate  for  the 
captain,  and  was  confident  that  if  time  had 
been  allowed,  she  could  have  made  sure  of 
even  such  wary  game  as  he.  When  a  stran 
ger  stepped  in  and  occupied  the  ground  at 
once,  it  gave  nobody  a  fair  chance,  and  Mrs. 
French  was  recognized  as  a  presuming  ad 
venturess  by  all  disappointed  aspirants  for 
the  captain's  hand.  The  captain  was  afraid 
at  times  that  Mrs.  French  carried  almost  too 
many  guns,  but  she  made  him  so  comfortable 
that  she  kept  the  upper  hand,  and  at  last  he 
was  conscious  of  little  objection  to  whatever 
this  able  housekeeper  proposed.  Her  only 
intimate  friends  were  the  minister  and  his 
wife,  and  the  captain  himself  was  so  won 
over  to  familiarity  by  the  kindness  of  his 
pastor  in  the  time  of  affliction,  that  when 
after  some  weeks  Mrs.  French  invited  the 
good  people  to  tea,  Captain  Ball  sat  man 
fully  at  the  foot  of  his  table,  and  listened 
with  no  small  pleasure  to  the  delighted  ex 
clamations  of  the  parson's  wife  over  his  store 
of  china  and  glass.  There  was  a  little  feel- 


THE  TAKING  OF  CAPTAIN  BALL.   171 

ing  of  guilt  when  lie  remembered  how  many 
times  in  his  sister's  day  he  had  evaded  such 
pleasant  social  occasions  by  complaint  of  in 
ward  malady,  or  by  staying  boldly  among 
the  wharves  until  long  past  supper-time,  and 
forcing  good  Miss  Ann  to  as  many  anxious 
excuses  as  if  her  brother's  cranky  ways  were 
not  as  well  known  to  the  guests  as  to  her 
self. 

II. 

Mrs.  Captain  Topliff  and  Miss  Miranda 
Hull  were  sitting  together  one  late  summer 
afternoon  in  Mrs.  ToplifFs  south  chamber. 
They  were  at  work  upon  a  black  dress  which 
was  to  be  made  over,  and  each  sat  by  a  front 
window  with  the  blinds  carefully  set  ajar. 

"  This  is  a  real  handy  room  to  sew  in," 
said  Miranda,  who  had  come  early  after  din 
ner  for  a  good  long  afternoon.  "  You  git 
the  light  as  long  as  there  is  any ;  and  I  do 
like  a  straw  carpet ;  I  don't  feel  's  if  I  made 
so  much  work  scatterin'  pieces." 

"Don't  you  have  no  concern  about  pieces," 
answered  Mrs.  Topliff,  amiably.  "  I  was 
precious  glad  to  get  you  right  011  the  sudden 
so.  You  see,  I  counted  on  my  other  dress 
lasting  me  till  winter,  and  sort  of  put  this 


172  THE  TAKING  OF  CAPTAIN  BALL. 

by  to  do  at  a  leisure  time.  I  knew  't  wa'n't 
fit  to  wear  as  't  was.  Anyway,  I  've  done 
dealin'  with  Stover ;  he  told  me,  lookin'  me 
right  in  the  eye,  that  it  was  as  good  a  wear- 
in'  piece  o'  goods  as  he  had  in  the  store. 
'T  was  a  real  cheat ;  you  can  put  your  finger 
right  through  it." 

"  You  've  got  some  wear  out  of  it,"  ven 
tured  Miranda,  meekly,  bending  over  her 
work.  "  I  made  it  up  quite  a  spell  ago,  I 
know.  Six  or  seven  years,  ain't  it,  Mis' 
Topliff?" 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure,"  replied  Mrs.  Topliff, 
with  suppressed  indignation  ;  "  but  this  we  're 
to  work  on  I  had  before  the  Centennial.  I 
know  I  would  n't  take  it  to  Philadelphy 
because  't  was  too  good.  An'  the  first  two 
or  three  years  of  a  dress  don't  count.  You 
know  how  't  is ;  you  just  wear  'em  to  meetin' 
a  pleasant  Sunday,  or  to  a  funeral,  p'r'aps, 
an'  keep  'em  in  a  safe  cluset  meanwhiles." 

"  Goods  don't  wear  as  't  used  to,"  agreed 
Miranda ;  "  but  't  is  all  the  better  for  my 
trade.  Land  !  there  's  some  dresses  in  this 
town  I  'm  sick  o'  bein'  called  on  to  make 
good  's  new.  Now  I  call  you  reasonable 
about  such  things,  but  there  's  some  I  could 
name  "  —  Miss  Hull  at  this  point  put  sev- 


THE  TAKING  OF  CAPTAIN  BALL.  173 

eral  pins  into  her  mouth,  as  if  to  guard  a 
secret. 

Mrs.  Topliff  looked  up  with  interest.  'c  I 
always  thought  Ann  Ball  was  the  meanest 
woman  about  such  expense.  She  always 
looked  respectable  too,  and  I  s'pose  she  'd 
said  the  heathen  was  gittin'  the  good  o' 
what  she  saved.^  She  must  have  given  away 
hundreds  o'  dollars  in  that  direction." 

"  She  left  plenty  too,  and  I  s'pose  Cap'n 
Asaph's  Mis'  French  will  get  the  good  of 
it  now,"  said  Miranda  through  the  pins. 
"  Seems  to  me  he 's  gittin'  caught  in  spite 
of  himself.  Old  vain  creatur',  he  seemed 
to  think  all  the  women-folks  in  town  was  in 
love  with  him." 

"  Some  was,"  answered  Mrs.  Topliff.  "  I 
think  any  woman  that  needed  a  home  would 
naturally  think  't  was  a  good  chance."  She 
thought  that  Miranda  had  indulged  high 
hopes,  but  wished  to  ignore  them  now. 

"  Some  that  had  a  home  seemed  inclined 
to  bestow  their  affections,  I  observed,"  re 
torted  the  dressmaker,  who  had  lost  her  lit 
tle  property  by  unfortunate  investment,  but 
would  not  be  called  homeless  by  Mrs.  Top 
liff.  Everybody  knew  that  the  widow  had 
set  herself  down  valiantly  to  besiege  the 


174   THE  TAKING  OF  CAPTAIN  BALL. 

enemy ;  but  after  this  passage  at  arms  be 
tween  the  friends  they  went  on  amiably  with 
their  conversation. 

"  Seems  to  me  the  minister  and  Mis'  Cal- 
vinn  are  dreadful  intimate  at  the  Cap'n's. 
I  wonder  if  the  Cap'n  's  goin'  to  give  as 
much  to  the  heathen  as  his  sister  did  ?  "  said 
Mrs.  Topliff,  presently. 

"  I  understood  he  told  the  minister  that 
none  o'  the  heathen  was  wuth  it  that  ever 
he  see,"  replied  Miranda  in  a  pinless  voice 
at  last.  "  Mr.  Calvinn  on]y  laughed ;  he 
knows  the  Cap'n's  ways.  But  I  should  n't 
thought  Asaph  Ball  would  have  let  his  hired 
help  set  out  and  ask  company  to  tea  just 
four  weeks  from  the  day  his  only  sister  was 
laid  away.  'T  wa'n't  feelin'." 

"  That  Mis'  French  wanted  to  get  the 
minister's  folks  to  back  her  up,  don't  you 
understand  ?  "  was  Mrs.  Topliff's  comment. 
"  I  should  think  the  Calvinns  would  n't  want 
to  be  so  free  and  easy  with  a  woman  from 
nobody  knows  where.  She  runs  in  and  out 
o'  the  parsonage  any  time  o'  day,  as  Ann 
Ball  never  took  it  upon  her  to  do.  Ann 
liked  Mis'  Calvinn,  but  she  always  had  to 
go  through  with  just  so  much,  and  be  formal 
with  everybody." 


THE  TAKING  OF  CAPTAIN  BALL.   175 

"  I  '11  tell  you  something  that  exasperated 
me,"  confided  the  disappointed  Miranda. 
"  That  night  they  was  there  to  tea,  Mis' 
Calvinn  was  praising  up  a  handsome  flow 
ered  china  bowl  that  was  on  the  table,  with 
some  new  kind  of  a  fancy  jelly  in  it,  and 
the  Cap'n  told  her  to  take  it  along  when  she 
went  home,  if  she  wanted  to,  speakin'  right 
out  thoughtless,  as  men  do  ;  and  that  Mis' 
French  chirped  up,  '  Yes,  I  'm  glad ;  you 
ought  to  have  somethin'  to  remember  the 
cap'n's  sister  by,'  says  she.  Can't  you  hear 
just  how  up  an'  comin'  it  was  ?  " 

"  I  can  so,"  said  Mrs.  Topliff.  "  I  see 
that  bowl  myself  on  Miss  Calvinn's  card- 
table,  when  I  was  makin'  a  call  there  day  be 
fore  yesterday.  I  wondered  how  she  come 
by  it.  'Tis  an  elegant  bowl.  Ann  must 
have  set  the  world  by  it,  poor  thing.  Won 
der  if  he  ain't  goin'  to  give  remembrances 
to  those  that  knew  his  sister  ever  since  they 
can  remember?  Mirandy  Hull,  that  Mis' 
French  is  a  fox  !  " 

"  'T  was  Widow  Sparks  gave  me  the  par 
ticulars,"  continued  Mrs.  Topliff.  "  She 
declared  at  first  that  never  would  she  step 
foot  inside  his  doors  again,  but  I  always 
thought  the  cap'n  put  up  with  a  good  deaL 


176   THE  TAKING  OF  CAPTAIN  BALL. 

Her  husband's  havin'  been  killed  in  one  o 
his  ships  by  a  fall  when  he  was  full  o'  liquor, 
and  her  bein'  there  so  much  to  help  Ann, 
and  their  havin'  provided  for  her  all  these 
years  one  way  an'  another,  did  n't  give  her 
the  right  to  undertake  the  housekeepin'  and 
direction  o'  everything  soon  as  Ann  died. 
She  dressed  up  as  if  't  was  for  meetin',  and 
'tended  the  front  door,  and  saw  the  folks 
that  came.  You  'd  thought  she  was  ma'am 
of  everything;  and  to  hear  her  talk  up  to 
the  cap'n !  I  thought  I  should  die  o'  laugh 
ing  when  he  blowed  out  at  her.  You  know 
how  he  gives  them  great  whoos  when  he  's 
put  about.  *  Go  below,  can't  ye,  till  your 
watch  's  called,'  says  he,  same 's  't  was 
aboard  ship  ;  but  there  !  everybody  knew  he 
was  all  broke  down,  and  everything  tried 
him.  But  to  see  her  flounce  out  o'  that 
back  door ! " 

"  'T  was  the  evenin'  after  the  funeral," 
Miranda  said,  presently.  "  I  was  there,  too, 
you  may  rec'lect,  seeing  what  I  could  do. 
The  cap'n  thought  I  was  the  proper  one  to 
look  after  her  things,  and  guard  against 
moths.  He  said  there  wa'n't  no  haste,  but 
I  knew  better,  an'  told  him  I  'd  brought 
some  camphire  right  with  me.  Well, 


THE  TAKING  OF  CAPTAIN  BALL.   177 

did  you  git  anything  further  out  o'  Mis' 
Sparks?" 

"  That  French  woman  made  all  up  with 
her,  and  Mis'  Sparks  swallowed  her  resent 
ment.  She  's  a  good-feelin',  ignorant  kind 
o'  woman,  an'  she  needed  the  money  bad," 
answered  Mrs.  Topliff.  "  If  you  '11  never 
repeat,  I  '11  tell  you  somethin'  that  '11  make 
your  eyes  stick  out,  Miranda." 

Miranda  promised,  and  filled  her  mouth 
with  pins  preparatory  to  proper  silence. 

"  You  know  the  Balls  had  a  half-brother 
that  went  off  out  West  somewhere  in  New 
York  State  years  ago.  I  don't  remember 
him,  but  he  brought  up  a  family,  and  some 
of  'em  came  here  an'  made  visits.  Ann  used 
to  get  letters  from  'em  sometimes,  she  's  told 
me,  and  I  dare  say  used  to  do  for  'em.  Well, 
Mis'  Sparks  says  that  there  was  a  smart 
young  Miss  Ball,  niece,  or  great-niece  o'  the 
cap'n,  wrote  on  and  wanted  to  come  an'  live 
with  him  for  the  sake  o'  the  home  —  his  own 
blood  and  kin,  you  see,  and  very  needy  — 
and  Mis'  Sparks  heard  'em  talk  about  her, 
and  that  wicked,  low,  offscourin'  has  got 
round  Asaph  Ball  till  he 's  consented  to  put 
the  pore  girl  off.  You  see,  she  wants  to 
contrive  time  to  make  him  marry  her,  and 


178   THE  TAKING  OF  CAPTAIN  BALL. 

then  she  '11  do  as  she  pleases  about  his  folks. 
Now  ain't  it  a  shame  ?  When  I  see  her  pa 
rade  up  the  broad  aisle,  I  want  to  stick  out 
my  tongue  at  her  —  I  do  so,  right  in  meetin'. 
If  the  cap'n  's  goin'  to  have  a  shock  within  a 
year,  I  could  wish  it  might  be  soon,  to  dis 
appoint  such  a  woman.  Who  is  she,  any 
way  ?  She  makes  me  think  o'  some  carr'on 
bird  pouncin'  down  on  us  right  out  o'  the 
air."  Mrs.  Topliff  sniffed  and  jerked  about 
in  her  chair,  having  worked  herself  into  a 
fine  fit  of  temper. 

"  There  ain't  no  up  nor  down  to  this  ma 
terial,  is  there  ?  "  inquired  Miranda,  meekly. 
She  was  thinking  that  if  she  were  as  well  off 
as  Mrs.  Topliff,  and  toward  seventy  years  of 
age,  she  would  never  show  a  matrimonial 
disappointment  in  this  open  way.  It  was 
ridiculous  for  a  woman  who  had  any  respect 
for  herself  and  for  the  opinion  of  society. 
Miranda  had  much  more  dignity,  and  tried 
to  cool  off  Mrs.  Topliff's  warmth  by  discus 
sion  of  the  black  gown. 

"  'T  ain't  pleasant  to  have  such  a  character 
among  us.  Do  you  think  it  is,  Mirandy  ?  " 
asked  Mrs.  Topliff,  after  a  few  minutes  of 
silence.  "  She  's  a  good-looking  person,  but 
with  something  sly  about  her.  I  don't  mean 


THE  TAKING  OF  CAPTAIN  BALL.  179 

to  call  on  her  again  until  she  accounts  for 
herself.  Livin'  nearer  than  any  of  Ann's 
friends,  I  thought  there  would  be  a  good 
many  ways  I  could  oblige  the  cap'n  if  he  'd 
grant  the  opportunity,  but  't  ain't  so  to  be. 
Now  Mr.  Topliff  was  such  an  eas3^-goin', 
pleasant-tempered  man,  that  I  take  time  to 
remember  others  is  made  different." 

Miranda  smiled.  Her  companion  had  suf 
fered  many  things  from  a  most  trying  hus 
band ;  it  was  difficult  to  see  why  she  was 
willing  to  risk  her  peace  of  mind  again. 

"  Cap'n  Asaph  looks  now  as  meek  as 
Moses,"  she  suggested,  as  she  pared  a  newly 
basted  seam  with  her  creaking  scissors. 
"  Mis'  French,  whoever  she  may  be,  has  got 
him  right  under  her  thumb.  I,  for  one,  be 
lieve  she  '11  never  get  him,  for  all  her  pains. 
He 's  as  sharp  as  she  is  any  day,  when  it 
comes  to  that ;  but  he  's  made  comfortable, 
and  she  starches  his  shirt  bosoms  so  's  you 
can  hear  'em  creak  'way  across  the  meeting 
house.  I  was  in  there  the  other  night  — 
she  wanted  to  see  me  about  some  work  — 
and  't  was  neat  as  wax,  and  an  awful  good 
scent  o'  somethin'  they  'd  had  for  supper." 

"  That  kind 's  always  smart  enough," 
granted  the  widow  Topliff.  "  I  want  to 


180   THE  TAKING  OF  CAPTAIN  BALL. 

know  if  she  cooks  him  a  hot  supper  every 
night  ?  Well,  she  '11  catch  him  if  anybody 
can.  Why  don't  you  get  a  look  into  some 
o'  the  clusets,  if  you  go  there  to  work  ?  Ann 
was  so  formal  I  never  spoke  up  as  I  wanted 
to  about  seeing  her  things.  They  must  have 
an  awful  sight  of  china,  and  as  for  the  linen 
and  so  on  that  the  cap'n  and  his  father  be 
fore  him  fetched  home  from  sea,  you  could  n't 
find  no  end  to  it.  Ann  never  made  'way 
with  much.  I  hope  the  mice  ain't  hivin' 
into  it  and  makin'  their  nests.  Ann  was 
very  particular,  but  I  dare  say  it  wore  her 
out  tryin'  to  take  care  o'  such  a  houseful." 

"  I  'm  going  there  Wednesday,"  said  Mi 
randa.  "  I  '11  spy  round  all  I  can,  but  I 
don't  like  to  carry  news  from  one  house  to 
another.  I  never  was  one  to  make  trouble  ; 
't  would  make  my  business  more  difficult 
than  't  is  a'ready." 

"  I  'd  trust  you,"  responded  Mrs.  Topliff, 
emphatically.  "  But  there,  Mirandy,  you 
know  you  can  trust  me  too,  and  anything 
you  say  goes  no  further." 

"  Yes  'm,"  returned  Miranda,  somewhat 
absently.  "  To  cut  this  the  way  you  want 
it  is  going  to  give  the  folds  a  ter'ble  skimpy 
look." 


THE   TAKING   OF  CAPTAIN  BALL.      181 

"  I  thought  it  would  from  the  first,"  was 
Mrs.  ToplifFs  obliging  answer. . 

III. 

The  captain  could  not  believe  that  two 
months  had  passed  since  his  sister's  death, 
but  Mrs.  French  assured  him  one  evening 
that  it  was  so.  He  had  troubled  himself 
very  little  about  public  opinion,  though  hints 
of  his  housekeeper's  suspicious  character 
and  abominable  intentions  had  reached  his 
ears  through  more  than  one  disinterested 
tale-bearer.  Indeed,  the  minister  and  his 
wife  were  the  only  persons  among  the  old 
family  friends  who  kept  up  any  sort  of  in 
tercourse  with  Mrs.  French.  The  ladies  of 
the  parish  themselves  had  not  dared  to 
asperse  her  character  to  the  gruff  captain, 
but  were  contented  with  ignoring  her  exist 
ence  and  setting  their  husbands  to  the  fray. 
"  Why  don't  you  tell  him  what  folks  think?  " 
was  a  frequent  question ;  but  after  a  first 
venture  even  the  most  intimate  and  valiant 
friends  were  sure  to  mind  their  own  busi 
ness,  as  the  indignant  captain  bade  them. 
Two  of  them  had  been  partially  won  over  to 
Mrs.  French's  side  by  a  taste  of  her  good 
cooking.  In  fact,  these  were  Captain  Dunn 


182   THE  TAKING  OF  CAPTAIN  BALL. 

and  Captain  Allister,  who,  at  the  eleven 
o'clock  rendezvous,  reported  their  wives  as 
absent  at  the  County  Conference,  and  were 
promptly  bidden  to  a  chowder  dinner  by  the 
independent  Captain  Ball,  who  gloried  in 
the  fact  that  neither  of  his  companions  would 
dare  to  ask  a  friend  home  unexpectedly. 
Our  hero  promised  his  guests  that  what  they 
did  not  find  in  eatables  they  should  make  up 
in  drinkables,  and  actually  produced  a  glis 
tening  decanter  of  Madeira  that  had  made 
several  voyages  in  his  father's  ships  while 
he  himself  was  a  boy.  There  were  several 
casks  and  long  rows  of  cobwebby  bottles  in 
the  cellar,  which  had  been  provided  against 
possible  use  in  case  of  illness,  but  the  cap 
tain  rarely  touched  them,  though  he  went 
regularly  every  morning  for  a  social  glass  of 
what  he  frankly  persisted  in  calling  his  grog. 
The  dinner  party  proved  to  be  a  noble  oc 
casion,  and  Mrs.  French  won  the  esteem  of 
the  three  elderly  seamen  by  her  discreet  be 
havior,  as  well  as  by  the  flavor  of  the  chow 
der. 

They  walked  out  into  the  old  garden  when 
the  feast  was  over,  and  continued  their  some 
what  excited  discussion  of  the  decline  of 
shipping,  on  the  seats  of  the  ancient  latticed 


THE  TAKING  OF  CAPTAIN  BALL.   183 

summer-house.  There  Mrs.  French  sur 
prised  them  by  bringing  out  a  tray  of  coffee, 
served  in  the  handsome  old  cups  which  the 
captain's  father  had  brought  home  from 
France.  She  was  certainly  a  good-looking 
woman,  and  stepped  modestly  and  soberly 
along  the  walk  between  the  mallows  and 
marigolds.  Her  feminine  rivals  insisted  that 
she  looked  both  bold  and  sly,  but  she  minded 
her  work  like  a  steam-tug,  as  the  captain 
whispered  admiringly  to  his  friends. 

"  Ain't  never  ascertained  where  she  came 
from  last,  have  ye  ?  1?  inquired  Captain  Alis- 
ter,  emboldened  by  the  best  Madeira  and 
the  good-fellowship  of  the  occasion. 

"  I  'm  acquainted  with  all  I  need  to  know," 
answered  Captain  Ball,  shortly  ;  but  his  face 
darkened,  and  when  his  guests  finished  their 
coffee  they  thought  it  was  high  time  to  go 
away. 

Everybody  was  sorry  that  a  jarring  note 
had  been  struck  on  so  delightful  an  occasion, 
but  it  could  not  be  undone.  On  the  whole, 
the  dinner  was  an  uncommon  pleasure,  and 
the  host  walked  back  into  the  house  to  com 
pliment  his  housekeeper,  though  the  sting 
of  his  friend's  untimely  question  expressed 
itself  by  a  remark  that  they  had  made  most 


184  THE  TAKING  OF  CAPTAIN  BALL. 

too  much  of  an  every-clay  matter  by  having 
the  coffee  in  those  best  cups. 

Mrs.  French  laughed.  "  'T  will  give  'em 
something  to  talk  about ;  't  was  excellent 
good  coffee,  this  last  you  got,  anyway,"  and 
Captain  Asaph  walked  away,  restored  to  a 
pleased  and  cheerful  frame  of  mind.  When 
he  waked  up  after  a  solid  after-dinner  nap, 
Mrs.  French,  in  her  decent  afternoon  gown, 
as  calm  as  if  there  had  been  no  company 
to  dinner,  was  just  coming  down  the  front 
stairs. 

She  seated  herself  by  the  window,  and 
pretended  to  look  into  the  street.  The  cap 
tain  shook  his  newspaper  at  an  invading 
fly.  It  was  early  September  and  flies  were 
cruelly  persistent.  Somehow  his  nap  had 
not  entirely  refreshed  him,  and  he  watched 
his  housekeeper  with  something  like  disap 
proval. 

"  I  want  to  talk  with  you  about  something, 
sir,"  said  Mrs.  French. 

"  She  's  going  to  raise  her  pay,"  the  cap 
tain  grumbled  to  himself.  "  Well,  speak 
out,  can't  ye  ma'am  ?  "  he  said. 

w  You  know  I  Ve  been  sayin'  all  along 
that  you  ought  to  get  your  niece  "  — 

"  She  's  my  great-niece,"  blew  the  captain, 


THE  TAKING  OF  CAPTAIN  BALL.  185 

"an'  I  don't  know  as  I  want  her."  The 
awful  certainty  came  upon  him  that  those 
hints  were  well-founded  about  Mrs.  French's 
determination  to  marry  him,  and  his  stormy 
nature  rose  in  wild  revolt.  "Can't  you 
keep  your  place,  ma'am  ?  "  and  he  gave  a 
great  whoo  !  as  if  he  were  letting  off  super 
abundant  steam.  She  might  prove  to  carry 
too  many  guns  for  him,  and  he  grew  very 
red  in  the  face.  It  was  a  much  worse  mo 
ment  than  when  a  vessel  comes  driving  at 
you  amidships  out  of  the  fog. 

"  Why,  yes,  sir,  I  should  be  glad  to  keep 
my  place,"  said  Mrs.  French,  taking  the  less 
grave  meaning  of  his  remark  by  instinct,  if 
not  by  preference  ;  "  only  it  seems  your  duty 
to  let  your  great-niece  come  some  time  or 
other,  and  I  can  go  off.  Perhaps  it  is  an 
untimely  season  to  speak  about  it,  but,  you 
see,  I  have  had  it  in  mind,  and  now  I  've 
got  through  with  the  preserves,  and  there 's 
a  space  between  now  and  house-cleaning,  I 
guess  you'd  better  let  the  young  woman 
come.  Folks  have  got  wind  about  your  re 
fusing  her  earlier,  and  think  hard  of  me: 
my  position  is  n't  altogether  pleasant,"  and 
she  changed  color  a  little,  and  looked  him 
full  in  the  face. 


186   THE  TAKING  OF  CAPTAIN  BALL. 

The  captain's  eyes  fell.  He  did  owe  her 
something.  He  never  had  been  so  comfort 
able  in  his  life,  on  shore,  as  she  had  made 
him.  She  had  heard  some  cursed  ill-natured 
speeches,  and  he  very  well  knew  that  a  more 
self-respecting  woman  never  lived.  But  now 
her  moment  of  self-assertion  seemed  to  have 
come,  and,  to  use  his  own  words,  she  had  him 
fast.  Stop !  there  was  a  way  of  escape. 

"  Then  I  will  send  for  the  gal.  Perhaps 
you  're  right,  ma'am.  I  've  slept  myself  into 
the  doldrums.  Whoo !  whoo !  "  he  said, 
loudly  —  anything  to  gain  a  little  time. 
"  Anything  you  say,  ma'am,"  he  protested. 
"  I  've  got  to  step  down-town  on  some  busk 
ness,"  and  the  captain  fled  with  ponderous 
footsteps  out  through  the  dining-room  to  the 
little  side  entry  where  he  hung  his  hat ;  then 
a  moment  later  he  went  away,  clicking  his 
cane  along  the  narrow  sidewalk. 

He  had  escaped  that  time,  and  wrote  th* 
brief  note  to  his  great-niece,  Ann  Ball^_ 
how  familiar  the  name  looked !  —  with  « 
sense  of  victory.  He  dreaded  the  next  in 
terview  with  his  housekeeper,  but  she  was 
business-like  and  self-possessed,  and  seemed 
to  be  giving  him  plenty  of  time.  Then  the 
captain  regretted  his  letter,  and  felt  as  if 


THE   TAKING   OF  CAPTAIN  BALL.      187 

he  were  going  to  be  broken  up  once  more  in 
his  home  comfort.  He  spoke  only  when  it 
was  absolutely  necessary,  and  simply  nodded 
his  head  when  Mrs.  French  said  that  she 
was  ready  to  start  as  soon  as  she  showed 
the  young  woman  about  the  house.  But 
what  favorite  dishes  were  served  the  cap 
tain  in  those  intervening  (Jays !  and  there 
was  one  cool  evening  beside,  when  the  house 
keeper  had  the  social  assistance  of  a  fire  in 
the  Franklin  stove.  The  captain  thought 
that  his  only  safety  lay  in  sleep,  and  promptly 
took  that  means  of  saving  himself  from  a 
dangerous  conversation.  He  even  went  to 
a  panorama  on  Friday  night,  a  diversion 
that  would  usually  be  quite  beneath  his 
dignity.  It  was  difficult  to  avoid  asking 
Mrs.  French  to  accompany  him,  she  helped 
him  on  with  his  coat  so  pleasantly,  but 
"  she  'd  git  her  claws  on  me  comin'  home 
perhaps,"  mused  the  self-distrustful  mariner, 
and  stoutly  went  his  way  to  the  panorama 
alone.  It  was  a  very  dull  show  indeed,  and 
he  bravely  confessed  it,  and  then  was  angry 
at  a  twinkle  in  Mrs.  French's  eyes.  Yet  he 
should  miss  the  good  creature,  and  for  the 
life  of  him  he  could  not  think  lightly  of  her. 
"  She  well  knows  how  able  she  is  to  do  for 


188   THE  TAKING  OF  CAPTAIN  BALL. 

me.  Women-folks  is  cap'ns  ashore,"  sighed 
the  captain  as  he  went  upstairs  to  bed. 

"  Women-folks  is  cap'ns  ashore,"  he  re 
peated,  in  solemn  confidence  to  one  of  his 
intimate  friends,  as  they  stood  next  day  on 
one  of  the  deserted  wharves,  looking  out 
across  the  empty  harbor  roads.  There  was 
nothing  coming  in.  How  they  had  watched 
the  deep-laden  ships  enter  between  the  outer 
capes  and  drop  their  great  sails  in  home 
waters!  How  they  had  ruled  those  ships, 
and  been  the  ablest  ship -masters  of  their 
day,  with  nobody  to  question  their  decisions ! 
There  is  no  such  absolute  monarchy  as  a  sea- 
captain's.  He  is  a  petty  king,  indeed,  as  he 
sails  the  high  seas  from  port  to  port. 

There  was  a  fine  easterly  breeze  and  a 
bright  sun  that  day,  but  Captain  Ball  came 
toiling  up  the  cobble-stoned  street  toward  his 
house  as  if  he  were  vexed  by  a  headwind.  He 
carried  a  post-card  between  his  thumb  and 
finger,  and  grumbled  aloud  as  he  stumped 
along.  "  Mis'  French !  "  he  called,  loudly, 
as  he  opened  the  door,  and  that  worthy  wo 
man  appeared  with  a  floured  apron,  and  a 
mind  divided  between  her  employer's  special 
business  and  her  own  affairs  of  pie-making. 

"  She  's  coming  this  same  day,"  roared  the 


THE  TAKING  OF  CAPTAIN  BALL.   189 

captain.  "Might  have  given  some  notice, 
I'm  sure.  4  Be  with  you  Saturday  after 
noon,'  and  signed  her  name.  That 's  all  she 's 
written.  Whoo !  whoo  !  'tis  a  dreadful  close 
day,"  and  the  poor  old  fellow  fumbled  for 
his  big  silk  handkerchief.  "I  don't  know 
what  train  she  '11  take.  I  ain't  going  to  hang 
round  up  at  the  depot;  my  rheumatism 
troubles  me." 

"  I  would  n't,  if  I  was  you,"  answered  Mrs. 
French,  shortly,  and  turned  from  him  with  a 
pettish  movement  to  open  the  oven  door. 

The  captain  passed  into  the  sitting-room, 
and  sat  down  heavily  in  his  large  chair.  On 
the  wall  facing  him  was  a  picture  of  his  old 
ship  the  Ocean  Rover  leaving  the  harbor  of 
Bristol.  It  was  not  valuable  as  a  marine 
painting,  but  the  sea  was  blue  in  that  pic 
ture,  and  the  white  canvas  all  spread  to  the 
very  sky-scrapers ;  it  was  an  emblem  of  that 
freedom  which  Captain  Asaph  Ball  had  once 
enjoyed.  Dinner  that  day  was  a  melancholy 
meal,  and  after  it  was  cleared  away  the  mas 
ter  of  the  house  forlornly  watched  Mrs. 
French  gather  an  armful  of  her  own  belong 
ings,  and  mount  the  stairs  as  if  she  were  go 
ing  to  pack  her  box  that  very  afternoon.  It 
did  not  seem  possible  that  she  meant  to  leave 


190   THE  TAKING  OF  CAPTAIN  BALL. 

before  Monday,  but  the  captain  could  not 
bring  himself  to  ask  any  questions.  He  was 
at  the  mercy  of  womankind.  "  A  jiggeting 
girl.  I  don't  know  how  to  act  with  her.  She 
sha'n't  rule  me,"  he  muttered  to  himself. 
"  She  and  Mis'  French  may  think  they  've 
got  things  right  to  their  hands,  but  I  '11 
stand  my  ground  — I  '11  stand  my  ground," 
and  the  captain  gently  slid  into  the  calmer 
waters  of  his  afternoon  nap. 

When  he  waked  the  house  was  still,  and 
with  sudden  consciousness  of  approaching 
danger,  and  a  fear  lest  Mrs.  French  might 
have  some  last  words  to  say  if  she  found  him 
awake,  he  stole  out  of  his  house  as  softly  as 
possible  and  went  down-town,  hiding  his  se 
cret  woes  and  joining  in  the  long  seafaring 
reminiscences  with  which  he  and  his  friends 
usually  diverted  themselves.  As  he  came  up 
the  street  again  toward  supper-time,  he  saw 
that  the  blinds  were  thrown  open  in  the  par 
lor  windows,  and  his  heart  began  to  beat 
loudly.  He  could  hear  women's  voices,  and 
he  went  in  by  a  side  gate  and  sought  the 
quiet  garden.  It  had  suffered  from  a  touch 
of  frost ;  so  had  the  captain. 

Mrs.  French  heard  the  gate  creak,  and 
presently  she  came  to  the  garden  door  at  the 


THE  TAKING  OF  CAPTAIN  BALL.   191 

end  of  the  front  entry.  "  Come  in,  won't  ye, 
cap'n  ?  "  she  called,  persuasively,  and  with  a 
mighty  sea  oath  the  captain  rose  and  obeyed. 

The  house  was  still.  He  strode  along  the 
entry  like  a  brave  man :  there  was  nothing 
of  the  coward  about  Asaph  Ball  when  he 
made  up  his  mind  to  a  thing.  There  was 
nobody  in  the  best  parlor,  and  he  turned 
toward  the  sitting-room,  but  there  sat  smil 
ing  Mrs.  French. 

"  Where  is  the  gal?  "  blew  the  captain. 

"  Here  I  be,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  French,  with 
a  flushed  and  beaming  face.  "  I  thought 
't  was  full  time  to  put  you  out  of  your 
misery." 

"  What 's  all  this  mean  ?    Whoo  !  whoo  !  " 

"  Here  I  be  ;  take  me  or  leave  me,  uncle," 
answered  the  housekeeper :  she  began  to  be 
anxious,  the  captain  looked  so  bewildered 
and  irate.  "  Folks  seemed  to  think  that  you 
was  peculiar,  and  I  was  impressed  that  it 
would  be  better  to  just  come  first  without  a 
word's  bein'  said,  and  find  out  how  you  an' 
me  got  on;  then,  if  we  didn't  make  out, 
nobody  'd  be  bound.  I  'm  sure  I  did  n't 
want  to  be." 

"  Who  was  that  I  heard  talking  with  ye 
as  I  come  by  ?  "  blew  the  captain  very  loud. 


192   THE  TAKING  OF  CAPTAIN  BALL. 

"That  was  Mis'  Cap'n  Topliff ;  an'  an 
old  cat  she  is,"  calmly  replied  Mrs.  French. 
"  She  has  n't  been  near  me  before  this  three 
months,  but  plenty  of  stories  she 's  set  goin' 
about  us,  and  plenty  of  spyin'  she  's  done.  I 
thought  I  'd  tell  you  who  I  was  within  a  week 
after  I  come,  but  I  found  out  how  things  was 
goin',  and  I  had  to  spite  'em  well  before  I 
got  through.  I  expected  that  something 
would  turn  up,  an'  the  whole  story  get  out. 
But  we  've  been  middlin'  comfortable,  have 
n't  we,  sir  ?  an'  I  thought  't  was  'bout  time 
to  give  you  a  little  surprise.  Mis'  Calvinn 
and  the  minister  knows  the  whole  story," 
she  concluded :  "I  would  n't  have  kep'  it 
from  them.  Mis'  Calvinn  said  all  along 
't  would  be  a  good  lesson  "  — 

"  Who  wrote  that  card  from  the  post-of 
fice  ?  "  demanded  the  captain,  apparently  but 
half  persuaded. 

"  I  did,"  said  Mrs.  French. 

"  Good  Hector,  you  women-folks  ! "  but 
Captain  Ball  ventured  to  cross  the  room  and 
establish  himself  in  his  chair.  Then,  being 
a  man  of  humor,  he  saw  that  he  had  a  round 
turn  on  those  who  had  spitefully  sought  to 
question  him. 

"You  needn't  let  on,  that  you  haven't 


THE  TAKING  OF  CAPTAIN  BALL.   193 

known  me  all  along,"  suggested  Mrs.  French. 
"  I  should  be  pleased  if  you  would  call  me 
by  my  Christian  name,  sir.  I  was  married 
to  Mr.  French  only  a  short  time  ;  he  was 
taken  away  very  sudden.  The  letter  that 
came  after  aunt's  death  was  directed  to  my 
maiden  name,  but  aunt  knew  all  about  me. 
1  've  got  some  means,  an'  I  ain't  distressed 
but  what  I  can  earn  my  living." 

"  They  don't  call  me  such  an  old  Turk, 
I  hope !  "  exclaimed  the  excited  captain, 
deprecating  the  underrated  estimate  of  him 
self  which  was  suddenly  presented.  "  I 
ain't  a  hard  man  at  sea,  now  I  tell  ye,"  and 
he  turned  away,  much  moved  at  the  injus 
tice  of  society.  "  I  've  got  no  head  for  ge- 
neology.  Ann  usually  set  in  to  give  me  the 
family  particulars  when  I  was  logy  with 
sleep  a  Sunday  night.  I  thought  you  was 
a  French  from  Massachusetts  way." 

"  I  had  to  say  somethin',"  responded  the 
housekeeper,  promptly. 

"  Well,  well !  "  and  a  suppressed  laugh 
shook  the  captain  like  an  earthquake.  He 
was  suddenly  set  free  from  his  enemies, 
while  an  hour  before  he  had  been  hemmed 
in  on  every  side. 

They  had  a  cheerful  supper,   and   Ann 


194   THE  TAKING  OF  CAPTAIN  BALL. 

French  cut  a  pie,  and  said,  as  she  passed 
him  more  than  a  quarter  part  of  it,  that  she 
thought  she  should  give  up  when  she  was 
baking  that  morning,  and  saw  the  look  on 
his  face  as  he  handed  her  the  post-card. 

"  You  're  fit  to  be  captain  of  a  privateer," 
acknowledged  Captain  Asaph  Ball,  hand 
somely.  The  complications  of  shore  life 
were  very  astonishing  to  this  seafaring  man 
of  the  old  school. 

Early  on  Monday  morning  he  had  a  de 
lightful  sense  of  triumph.  Captain  Allister, 
who  was  the  chief  gossip  of  the  waterside 
club,  took  it  upon  himself  —  a  cheap  thing 
to  do,  as  everybody  said  afterwards  —  to 
ask  many  questions  about  those  unvalued 
relatives  of  the  Balls,  who  had  settled  long 
ago  in  New  York  State.  Were  there  any 
children  left  of  the  captain's  half-brother's 
family  ? 

"  I  've  got  a  niece  living  —  a  great-niece 
she  is,"  answered  Captain  Ball,  with  a  broad 
smile  —  "  makes  me  feel  old.  You  see,  my 
half-brother  was  a  grown  man  when  I  was 
born.  I  never  saw  him  scarcely  ;  there  was 
some  misunderstanding  an'  he  always  lived 
with  his  own  mother's  folks  ;  and  father,  he 


THE  TAKING  OF  CAPTAIN  BALL.   195 

married  again,  and  had  me  and  Ann  thirty 
year  after.  Why,  my  half-brother  'd  been 
'most  a  hundred  ;  I  don't  know  but  more." 

Captain  Ball  spoke  in  a  cheerful  tone  ; 
the  audience  meditated,  and  Captain  Allister 
mentioned  meekly  that  time  did  slip  away. 

"Ever  see  any  of  'em?"  he  inquired. 
In  some  way  public  interest  was  aroused  in 
the  niece. 

"  Ever  see  any  of  'em  ?  "  repeated  the 
captain,  in  a  loud  tone.  "  You  fool,  Allister, 
who  's  keepin'  my  house  this  minute  ?  Why, 
Ann  French ;  Ann  Ball  that  was,  and  a 
smart,  likely  woman  she  is.  I  ain't  a  mar- 
ryin'  man  :  there  's  been  plenty  o'  fools  to 
try  me.  I  Ve  been  picked  over  well  by  you 
and  others,  and  I  thought  if  't  pleased  you, 
you  could  take  your  own  time." 

The  honest  captain  for  once  lent  himself 
to  deception.  One  would  have  thought 
that  he  had  planned  the  siege  himself.  He 
took  his  stick  from  where  it  leaned  against 
a  decaying  piece  of  ship-timber  and  went 
clicking  away.  The  explanation  of  his 
housekeeping  arrangements  was  not  long  in 
flying  about  the  town,  and  Mrs.  Captain 
Topliff  made  an .  early  call  to  say  that  she 
had  always  suspected  it  from  the  first,  from 
the  family  likeness. 


196   THE  TAKING  OF  CAPTAIN  BALL. 

From  this  time  Captain  Ball  submitted 
to  the  rule  of  Mrs.  French,  and  under  her 
sensible  and  fearless  sway  became,  as  every 
body  said,  more  like  other  people  than  ever 
before.  As  he  grew  older  it  was  more  and 
more  convenient  to  have  a  superior  officer 
to  save  him  from  petty  responsibilities. 
But  now  and  then,  after  the  first  relief  at 
finding  that  Mrs.  French  was  not  seeking 
his  hand  in  marriage,  and  that  the  jigget- 
ing  girl  was  a  mere  fabrication,  Captain 
Ball  was  both  surprised  and  a  little  ashamed 
to  discover  that  something  in  his  heart  had 
suffered  disappointment  in  the  matter  of  the 
great-niece.  Those  who  knew  him  well 
would  have  as  soon  expected  to  see  a  flower 
grow  out  of  a  cobble-stone  as  that  Captain 
Asaph  Ball  should  hide  such  a  sentiment  in 
his  honest  breast.  He  had  fancied  her  a 
pretty  girl  in  a  pink  dress,  who  would  make 
some  life  in  the  quiet  house,  and  sit  and 
sing  at  her  sewing  by  the  front  window,  in 
all  her  foolish  furbelows,  as  he  came  up 
the  street. 


BY  THE  MORNING  BOAT. 

ON  the  coast  of  Maine,  where  many  green 
islands  and  salt  inlets  fringe  the  deep-cut 
shore  line  ;  where  balsam  firs  and  bayberry 
bushes  send  their  fragrance  far  seaward,  and 
song-sparrows  sing  all  day,  and  the  tide  runs 
plashing  in  and  out  among  the  weedy  ledges ; 
where  cowbells  tinkle  on  the  hills  and  her 
ons  stand  in  the  shady  coves,  —  on  the 
lonely  coast  of  Maine  stood  a  small  gray 
house  facing  the  morning  light.  All  the 
weather-beaten  houses  of  that  region  face 
the  sea  apprehensively,  like  the  women  who 
live  in  them. 

This  home  of  four  people  was  as  bleached 
and  gray  with  wind  and  rain  as  one  of  the 
pasture  rocks  close  by.  There  were  some 
cinnamon  rose  bushes  under  the  window  at 
one  side  of  the  door,  and  a  stunted  lilac  at 
the  other  side.  It  was  so  early  in  the  cool 
morning  that  nobody  was  astir  but  some  shy 
birds,  that  had  come  in  the  stillness  of 
dawn  to  pick  and  flutter  in  the  short  grass. 


198  BY  THE  MORNING  BOAT. 

They  flew  away  together  as  some  one  softly 
opened  the  unlocked  door  and  stepped  out. 
This  was  a  bent  old  man,  who  shaded  his 
eyes  with  his  hand,  and  looked  at  the  west 
and  the  east  and  overhead,  and  then  took  a 
few  lame  and  feeble  steps  farther  out  to  see 
a  wooden  vane  on  the  barn.  Then  he  sat 
down  on  the  doorstep,  clasped  his  hands  to 
gether  between  his  knees,  and  looked  stead 
ily  out  to  sea,  scanning  the  horizon  where 
some  schooners  had  held  on  their  course  all 
night,  with  a  light  westerly  breeze.  Pie 
seemed  to  be  satisfied  at  sight  of  the  weather, 
as  if  he  had  been  anxious,  as  he  lay  unas 
sured  in  his  north  bedroom,  vexed  with  the 
sleeplessness  of  age  and  excited  by  thoughts 
of  the  coming  day.  The  old  seaman  dozed 
as  he  sat  on  the  doorstep,  while  dawn  came 
up  and  the  world  grew  bright ;  and  the  little 
birds  returned,  fearfully  at  first,  to  finish 
their  breakfast,  and  at  last  made  bold  to  hop 
close  to  his  feet. 

After  a  time  some  one  else  came  and  stood 
in  the  open  door  behind  him. 

"  Why,  father  !  seems  to  me  you  've  got 
an  early  start ;  't  ain't  but  four  o'clock.      I 
thought  I  was  foolish  to  get  up  so  soon,  but , 
't  wa'n't  so  I  could  sleep." 


BY  THE  MORNING  BOAT.  199 

"  No,  darter."  The  old  man  smiled  as  he 
turned  to  look  at  her,  wide  awake  on  the  in 
stant.  "  'T  ain't  so  soon  as  I  git  out  some 
o'  these  'arly  mornin's.  The  birds  wake  me 
up  singin',  and  it 's  plenty  light,  you  know. 
I  wanted  to  make  sure  'Lisha  would  have  a 
fair  day  to  go." 

"  I  expect  he  'd  have  to  go  if  the  weather 
wa'n't  good,"  said  the  woman. 

"  Yes,  yes,  but  't  is  useful  to  have  fair 
weather,  an'  a  good  sign  some  says  it  is. 
This  is  a  great  event  for  the  boy,  ain't  it  ?  " 

"  I  can't  face  the  thought  o'  losin'  on  him, 
father."  The  woman  came  forward  a  step 
or  two  and  sat  down  on  the  doorstep.  She 
was  a  hard-worked,  anxious  creature,  whose 
face  had  lost  all  look  of  youth.  She  was 
apt,  in  the  general  course  of  things,  to  hurry 
the  old  man  and  to  spare  little  time  for  talk 
ing,  and  he  was  pleased  by  this  acknow 
ledged  unity  of  their  interests.  He  moved 
aside  a  little  to  give  her  more  room,  and 
glanced  at  her  with  a  smile,  as  if  to  beg  her 
to  speak  freely.  They  were  both  undemon 
strative,  taciturn  New  Englanders ;  their 
hearts  were  warm  with  pent-up  feeling,  that 
summer  morning,  yet  it  was  easier  to  under 
stand  one  another  through  silence  than 
through  speech. 


200  BY  THE  MORNING  BOAT. 

"  No,  I  could  n't  git  much  sleep,"  repeated 
the  daughter  at  last.  "  Some  things  I 
thought  of  that  ain't  come  to  mind  before 
for  years,  —  things  I  don't  relish  the  f eelin' 
of,  all  over  again." 

"  'T  was  just  such  a  mornin'  as  this,  pore 
little  'Lisha's  father  went  off  on  that  last 
v'y'ge  o'  his,"  answered  the  old  sailor,  with 
instant  comprehension.  "  Yes,  you  've  had 
it  master  hard,  pore  gal,  ain't  you  ?  I  ad 
vised  him  against  goin'  off  on  that  old  ves 
sel  with  a  crew  that  wa'ri't  capable." 

"  Such  a  mornin'  as  this,  when  I  come 
out  at  sun-up,  I  always  seem  to  see  her  top- 
s'ils  over  there  beyond  the  p'int,  where  she 
was  to  anchor.  Well,  I  thank  Heaven 
'Lisha  was  averse  to  goin'  to  sea,"  declared 
the  mother. 

"  There 's  dangers  ashore,  Lucy  Ann," 
said  the  grandfather,  solemnly ;  but  there 
was  no  answer,  and  they  sat  there  in  silence 
until  the  old  man  grew  drowsy  again. 

"  Yisterday  was  the  first  time  it  fell  onto 
my  heart  that  'Lisha  was  goin'  off,"  the  mo 
ther  began  again,  after  a  time  had  passed. 
"  P'r'aps  folks  was  right  about  our  needing 
of  him.  I  've  been  workin'  every  way  I 
could  to  further  him  and  git  him  a  real  good 


BY  THE  MORN  TNG  BOAT.  201 

chance  up  to  Boston,  and  now  that  we  've 
got  to  part  with  him  I  don't  see  how  to  put 
up  with  it." 

"  All  nateral,"  insisted  the  old  man.  "  My 
mother  wept  the  night  through  before  I  was 
goin'  to  sail  on  my  first  v'y'ge  ;  she  was  kind 
of  satisfied,  though,  when  I  come  home  next 
summer,  grown  a  full  man,  with  my  savin's 
in  my  pocket,  an'  I  had  a  master  pretty 
little  figured  shawl  I  'd  bought  for  her  to 
Bristol." 

"  I  don't  want  no  shawls.  Partin'  is  part- 
in'  to  me,"  said  the  woman. 

"  'T  ain't  everybody  can  stand  in  her  fore- 
door  an'  see  the  chimbleys  o'  three  child'n's 
houses  without  a  glass,"  he  tried  eagerly  to 
console  her.  "  All  ready  an'  willin'  to  do 
their  part  for  you,  so  as  you  could  let  'Lisha 
go  off  and  have  his  chance." 

"  I  don't  know  how  it  is,"  she  answered, 
"  but  none  on  'em  never  give  me  the  rooted 
home  feelin'  that  'Lisha  has.  They  was 
more  varyin'  and  kind  o'  fast  growin'  and 
scatterin'  ;  but  'Lisha  was  always  'Lisha 
when  he  was  a  babe,  and  I  settled  on  him 
for  the  one  to  keep  with  me." 

"  Then  he  's  just  the  kind  to  send  off,  one 
you  ain't  got  to  worry  about.  They  're  all 


202  BY  THE  MORNING  BOAT: 

good  child'n,"  said  the  man.  "  We  've  rea 
son  to  be  thankful  none  on  'em  's  been  like 
some  young  sprigs,  more  grief  'n  glory  to 
their  folks.  An'  I  ain't  regrettin'  'Lisha's 
goin'  one  mite  ;  I  believe  you  'd  rather  go 
on  doin'  for  him  an'  cossetin'.  I  think  't  was 
high  time  to  shove  him  out  o'  the  nest." 

"  You  ain't  his  mother,"  said  Lucy  Ann. 

"  What  be  you  goin'  to  give  him  for  his 
breakfast  ?  "  asked  the  stern  grandfather,  in 
a  softened,  less  business-like  voice. 

"  I  don't  know  's  I  'd  thought  about  it, 
special,  sir.  I  did  lay  aside  that  piece  o' 
apple  pie  we  had  left  yisterday  from  dinner," 
she  confessed. 

"  Fry  him  out  a  nice  little  crisp  piece  o' 
pork,  Lucy  Ann,  an'  't  will  relish  with  his 
baked  potatoes.  He  '11  think  o'  his  break 
fast  more  times  'n  you  expect.  I  know  a 
lad's  feelin's  when  home  's  put  behind  him." 

The  sun  was  up  clear  and  bright  over  the 
broad  sea  inlet  to  the  eastward,  but  the  shin 
ing  water  struck  the  eye  by  its  look  of  va 
cancy.  It  was  broad  daylight,  and  still  so 
early  that  no  sails  came  stealing  out  from  the 
farmhouse  landings,  or  even  from  the  gray 
groups  of  battered  fish-houses  that  overhung, 
here  and  there,  a  sheltered  cove.  Some 


BY  THE  MORNING  BOAT.  203 

crows  and  gulls  were  busy  in  the  air  ;  it  was 
the  time  of  day  when  the  world  belongs  more 
to  birds  than  to  men. 

"  Poor  'Lisha  !  "  the  mother  went  on  com 
passionately.  "  I  expect  it  has  been  a  long 
night  to  him.  He  seemed  to  take  it  in,  as 
he  was  goin'  to  bed,  how  't  was  his  last  night 
to  home.  I  heard  him  thrashin'  about  kind 
o'  restless,  sometimes." 

"  Come,  Lucy  Ann,  the  boy  ought  to  be 
stirrin' !  "  exclaimed  the  old  sailor,  without 
the  least  show  of  sympathy.  "  He  's  got  to 
be  ready  when  John  Sykes  comes,  an'  he 
ain't  so  quick  as  some  lads." 

The  mother  rose  with  a  sigh,  and  went 
into  the  house.  After  her  own  sleepless 
night,  she  dreaded  to  face  the  regretful, 
sleepless  eyes  of  her  son  ;  but  as  she  opened 
the  door  of  his  little  bedroom,  there  lay 
Elisha  sound  asleep  and  comfortable  to  be 
hold.  She  stood  watching  him  with  gloomy 
tenderness  until  he  stirred  uneasily,  his  con 
sciousness  roused  by  the  intentness  of  her 
thought,  and  the  mysterious  current  that 
flowed  from  her  wistful,  eager  eyes. 

But  when  the  lad  waked,  it  was  to  a  joy 
ful  sense  of  manliness  and  responsibility ; 
for  him  the  change  of  surroundings  was  com- 


204  BY  THE  MORNING  BOAT. 

ing  through  natural  processes  of  growth,  not 
through  the  uprooting  which  gave  his  mo 
ther  such  an  aching  heart. 

A  little  later  Elisha  came  out  to  the 
breakfast-table,  arrayed  in  his  best  sandy- 
brown  clothes  set  off  with  a  bright  blue  satin 
cravat,  which  had  been  the  pride  and  delight 
of  pleasant  Sundays  and  rare  holidays.  He 
already  felt  unrelated  to  the  familiar  scene 
of  things,  and  was  impatient  to  be  gone. 
For  one  thing,  it  was  strange  to  sit  down  to 
breakfast  in  Sunday  splendor,  while  his  mo 
ther  and  grandfather  and  little  sister  Lydia 
were  in  their  humble  every-day  attire.  They 
ate  in  silence  and  haste,  as  they  always  did, 
but  with  a  new  constraint  and  awkwardness 
that  forbade  their  looking  at  one  another. 
At  last  the  head  of  the  household  broke  the 
silence  with  simple  straightforwardness. 

"  You  've  got  an  excellent  good  day, 
'Lisha.  I  like  to  have  a  fair  start  myself. 
'T  ain't  goin'  to  be  too  hot ;  the  wind  's 
working  into  the  north  a  little." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  responded  Elisha. 

"  The  great  p'int  about  gittin'  on  in  life 
is  bein'  able  to  cope  with  your  headwinds," 
continued  the  old  man  earnestly,  pushing 
away  his  plate.  "  Any  fool  can  run  before 


BY   THE  MORNING  BOAT.  205 

a  fair  breeze,  but  I  tell  ye  a  good  seaman  is 
one  that  gits  the  best  out  o'  his  disadvan 
tages.  You  won't  be  treated  so  pretty  as 
you  expect  in  the  store,  and  you  '11  git 
plenty  o'  blows  to  your  pride ;  but  you  keep 
right  ahead,  and  if  you  can't  run  before  the 
wind  you  can  always  beat.  I  ain't  no  hand 
to  preach,  but  preachin'  ain't  goin'  to  sarve 
ye  now.  We  've  gone  an'  fetched  ye  up  the 
best  we  could,  your  mother  an'  me,  an'  you 
can't  never  say  but  you  've  started  amongst 
honest  folks.  If  a  vessel 's  built  out  o'  sound 
timber  an'  has  got  good  lines  for  sailin',  why 
then  she  's  seaworthy ;  but  if  she  ain't,  she 
ain't ;  an'  a  mess  o'  preachin'  ain't  goin'  to 
alter  her  over.  Now  you  're  standin'  out  to 
sea,  my  boy,  an'  you  can  bear  your  home  in 
mind  and  work  your  way,  same  's  plenty  of 
others  has  done." 

It  was  a  solemn  moment ;  the  speaker's 
voice  faltered,  and  little  Lydia  dried  her 
tearful  blue  eyes  with  her  gingham  apron. 
Elisha  hung  his  head,  and  patted  the  old 
spotted  cat  which  came  to  rub  herself  against 
his  trowsers-leg.  The  -mother  rose  hastily, 
and  hurried  into  the  pantry  close  by.  She 
was  always  an  appealing  figure,  with  her 
thin  shoulders  and  faded  calico  gowns ;  it 


206  BY   THE  MORNING  BOAT. 

was  difficult  to  believe  that  she  had  once 
been  the  prettiest  girl  in  that  neighborhood. 
But  her  son  loved  her  in  his  sober,  undemon 
strative  way,  and  was  full  of  plans  for  com 
ing  home,  rich  and  generous  enough  to  make 
her  proud  and  happy.  He  was  half  pleased 
and  half  annoyed  because  his  leave-taking 
was  of  such  deep  concern  to  the  household. 

"  Come,  Lyddy,  don't  you  take  on,"  he 
said,  with  rough  kindliness.  "  Let 's  go  out, 
and  I  '11  show  you  how  to  feed  the  pig  and 
'tend  to  the  chickens.  You  '11  have  to  be 
chief  clerk  when  I  'ra  gone." 

They  went  out  to  the  yard,  hand  in  hand. 
Elisha  stopped  to  stroke  the  old  cat  again, 
as  she  ran  by  his  side  and  mewed.  "  I  wish 
I  was  off  and  done  with  it ;  this  morning 
does  seem  awful  long,"  said  the  boy. 

"  Ain't  you  afraid  you  '11  be  homesick 
an'  want  to  come  back?"  asked  the  little 
sister  timidly;  but  Elisha  scorned  so  poor 
a  thought. 

"  You  '11  have  to  see  if  grandpa  has  'tended 
to  these  things,  the  pig  an'  the  chickens,"  he 
advised  her  gravely.  "  He  forgets  'em  some 
times  when  I  'm  away,  but  he  would  be  cast 
down  if  you  told  him  so,  and  you  just  keep 
an  eye  open,  Lyddy.  Mother  's  got  enough 


BY  THE  MORNING  BOAT.  207 

to  do  inside  the  house.  But  grandsir  '11 
keep  her  in  kindlin's  ;  he  likes  to  set  and 
chop  in  the  shed  rainy  days,  an'  he  '11  do  a 
sight  more  if  you  '11  set  with  him,  an'  let 
him  get  goin'  on  his  old  seafarin'  times." 

Lydia  nodded  discreetly. 

"  An',  Lyddy,  don't  you  loiter  comin' 
home  from  school,  an'  don't  play  out  late,  an' 
get  'em  fussy,  when  it  comes  cold  weather. 
And  you  tell  Susy  Draper,"  -  the  boy's 
voice  sounded  unconcerned,  but  Lydia 
glanced  at  him  quickly,  —  "  you  tell  Susy 
Draper  that  I  was  awful  sorry  she  was  over 
to  her  aunt's,  so  I  could  n't  say  good-by." 

Lydia' s  heart  was  the  heart  of  a  wo 
man,  and  she  comprehended.  Lydia  nodded 
again,  more  sagely  than  before. 

"  See  here,"  said  the  boy  suddenly.  "  I  'm 
goin'  to  let  my  old  woodchuck  out." 

Lydia's  face  was  blank  with  surprise.  "  I 
thought  you  promised  to  sell  him  to  big  Jim 
Hooper." 

"  I  did,  but  I  don't  care  for  big  Jim 
Hooper  ;  you  just  tell  him  I  let  my  wood- 
chuck  go." 

The  brother  and  sister  went  to  their  fa 
vorite  playground  between  the  ledges,  not 
far  from  the  small  old  barn.  Here  was  a 


208  BY  THE  MORNING  BOAT, 

clumsy  box  with  wire  gratings,  behind  which 
an  untamed  little  wild  beast  sat  up  and  chit- 
tered  at  his  harmless  foes.  "  He  's  a  whop 
ping  old  fellow,"  said  Elisha  admiringly. 
"  Big  Jim  Hooper  shaVt  have  him  !  "  and 
as  he  opened  the  trap,  Lydia  had  hardly  time 
to  perch  herself  high  on  the  ledge,  before 
the  woodchuck  tumbled  and  scuttled  along 
the  short  green  turf,  and  was  lost  among  the 
clumps  of  juniper  and  bay  berry  just  beyond. 

"  I  feel  just  like  him,"  said  the  boy.  "  I 
want  to  get  up  to  Boston  just  as  bad  as  that. 
See  here,  now !  "  and  he  flung  a  gallant  cart 
wheel  of  himself  in  the  same  direction,  and 
then  stood  on  his  head  and  waved  his  legs 
furiously  in  the  air.  "  I  feel  just  like  that." 

Lydia,  who  had  been  tearful  all  the  morn 
ing,  looked  at  him  in  vague  dismay.  Only  a 
short  time  ago  she  had  never  been  made  to 
feel  that  her  brother  was  so  much  older  than 
herself.  They  had  been  constant  playmates ; 
but  now  he  was  like  a  grown  man,  and  cared 
no  longer  for  their  old  pleasures.  There 
was  all  possible  difference  between  them 
that  there  can  be  between  fifteen  years  and 
twelve,  and  Lydia  was  nothing  but  a  child. 

"  Come,  come,  where  be  ye  ?  "  shouted  the 
old  grandfather,  and  they  both  started  guilt- 


BY   THE    MORNING  BOAT.  209 

ily.  Elisha  rubbed  some  dry  grass  out  of 
his  short-cropped  hair,  and  the  little  sister 
came  down  from  her  ledge.  At  that  mo 
ment  the  real  pang  of  parting  shot  through 
her  heart ;  her  brother  belonged  irrevocably 
to  a  wider  world. 

"  Ma'am  Stover  has  sent  for  ye  to  come 
over ;  she  wants  to  say  good-by  to  ye !  " 
shouted  the  grandfather,  leaning  on  his  two 
canes  at  the  end  of  the  barn.  "  Come,  step 
lively,  an'  remember  you  ain't  got  none  too 
much  time,  an'  the  boat  ain't  goin'  to  wait  a 
minute  for  nobody." 

"  Ma'am  Stover  ?  "  repeated  the  boy,  with 
a  frown.  He  and  his  sister  knew  only  too 
well  the  pasture  path  between  the  two  houses. 
Ma'am  Stover  was  a  bedridden  woman-,  who 
had  seen  much  trouble,  —  a  town  charge  in 
her  old  age.  Her  neighbors  gave  to  her 
generously  out  of  their  own  slender  stores. 
Yet  with  all  this  poverty  and  dependence, 
she  held  firm  sway  over  the  customs  and 
opinions  of  her  acquaintance,  from  the  un 
easy  bed  where  she  lay  year  in  and  year  out, 
watching  the  far  sea  line  beyond  a  pasture 
slope. 

The  young  people  walked  fast,  sometimes 
running  a  little  way,  light-footed,  the  boy 


210  BY  THE  MORNING   BOAT. 

going  ahead,  and  burst  into  their  neighbor's 
room  out  of  breath. 

She  was  calm  and  critical,  and  their  ex 
citement  had  a  sudden  chill. 

"  So  the  great  day  's  come  at  last,  'Li- 
sha  ?  "  she  asked  ;  at  which  'Lisha  was  con 
scious  of  unnecessary  aggravation. 

"  I  don't  know  's  it 's  much  of  a  day  —  to 
anybody  but  me,"  he  added,  discovering  a 
twinkle  in  her  black  eyes  that  was  more 
sympathetic  than  usual.  "  I  expected  to 
stop  an'  see  you  last  night ;  but  I  had  to  go 
round  and  see  all  our  folks,  and  when  I  got 
back  't  was  late  and  the  tide  was  down,  an' 
I  knew  that  grandsir  could  n't  git  the  boat 
up  all  alone  to  our  lower  landin'." 

"  Well,  I  did  n't  forgit  you,  but  I  thought 
p'r'aps  you  might  forgit  me,  an'  I  'm  goin' 
to  give  ye  somethin'.  'T  is  for  your  folks' 
sake ;  I  want  ye  to  tell  'em  so.  I  don't 
want  ye  never  to  part  with  it,  even  if  it  fails 
to  work  and  you  git  proud  an'  want  a  new 
one.  It 's  been  a  sight  o'  company  to  me." 
She  reached  up,  with  a  flush  on  her  wrinkled 
cheeks  and  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  took  a 
worn  old  silver  watch  from  its  nail,  and 
handed  it,  with  a  last  look  at  its  white  face 
and  large  gold  hands,  to  the  startled  boy. 


BY  THE  MORNING   BOAT.  211 

"Oh,  I  can't  take  it  f rom .  ye,  Ma'am 
Stover.  I  'm  just  as  much  obliged  to  you," 
he  faltered. 

"There,  go  now,  dear,  go  right  along," 
said  the  old  woman,  turning  quickly  away. 
"  Be  a  good  boy  for  your  folks'  sake.  If  so 
be  that  I  'm  here  when  you  come  home,  you 
can  let  me  see  how  well  you  've  kep'  it." 

The  boy  and  girl  went  softly  out,  leaving 
the  -door  wide  open,  as  Ma'am  Stover  liked 
to  have  it  in  summer  weather,  her  windows 
being  small  and  few.  There  were  neighbors 
near  enough  to  come  and  shut  it,  if  a  heavy 
shower  blew  up.  Sometimes  the  song  spar 
rows  and  whippoorwills  came  hopping  in 
about  the  little  bare  room. 

"  I  felt  kind  of  'shamed  to  carry  off  her 
watch,"  protested  Elisha,  with  a  radiant  face 
that  belied  his  honest  words. 

"  Put  it  on,"  said  proud  little  Lydia,  trot 
ting  alongside ;  and  he  hooked  the  bright 
steel  chain  into  his  buttonhole,  and  looked 
down  to  see  how  it  shone  across  his  waist 
coat.  None  of  his  friends  had  so  fine  a 
watch ;  even  his  grandfather's  was  so  poor 
a  timekeeper  that  it  was  rarely  worn  except 
as  a  decoration  on  Sundays  or  at  a  funeral. 
They  hurried  home.  Ma'am  Stover,  lying 


212  BY  THE  MORNING  BOAT. 

in  her  bed,  could  see  the  two  slight  figures 
nearly  all  the  way  on  the  pasture  path ;  flit 
ting  along  in  their  joyful  haste. 

It  was  disappointing  that  the  mother  and 
grandfather  had  so  little  to  say  about  the 
watch.  In  fact,  Elisha's  grandfather  only 
said  "  Pore  creatur' "  once  or  twice,  and 
turned  away,  rubbing  his  eyes  with  the  back 
of  his  hand.  If  Ma'am  Stover  had  chosen 
to  give  so  rich  a  gift,  to  know  the  joy  of 
such  generosity,  nobody  had  a  right  to  pro 
test.  Yet  nobody  knew  how  much  the  poor 
wakeful  soul  would  miss  the  only  one  of 
her  meagre  possessions  that  seemed  alive 
and  companionable  in  lonely  hours.  Some 
body  had  said  once  that  there  were  chairs 
that  went  about  on  wheels,  made  on  purpose 
for  crippled  persons  like  Ma'am  Stover ; 
and  Elisha's  heart  was  instantly  filled  with 
delight  at  the  remembrance.  Perhaps  be 
fore  long,  if  he  could  save  some  money  and 
get  ahead,  he  would  buy  one  of  those  chairs 
and  send  it  down  from  Boston  ;  and  a  new 
sense  of  power  filled  his  honest  heart.  He 
had  dreamed  a  great  many  dreams  already 
of  what  he  meant  to  do  with  all  his  money, 
when  he  came  home  rich  and  a  person  of 
consequence,  in  summer  vacations. 


BY  THE  MORNING  BOAT.  213 

The  large  leather  valise  was  soon  packed, 
and  its  owner  carried  it  out  to  the  roadside, 
and  put  his  last  winter's  overcoat  and  a  great 
new  umbrella  beside  it,  so  as  to  be  ready 
when  John  Sykes  came  with  the  wagon.  He 
was  more  and  more  anxious  to  be  gone,  and 
felt  no  sense  of  his  old  identification  with 
the  home  interests.  His  mother  said  sadly 
that  he  would  be  gone  full  soon  enough, 
when  he  joined  his  grandfather  in  accusing 
Mr.  Sykes  of  keeping  them  waiting  forever 
and  making  him  miss  the  boat.  There  were 
three  rough  roundabout  miles  to  be  traveled 
to  the  steamer  landing,  and  the  Sykes  horses 
were  known  to  be  slow.  But  at  last  the 
team  came  nodding  in  sight  over  a  steep 
hill  in  the  road. 

Then  the  moment  of  parting  had  come, 
the  moment  toward  which  all  the  long  late 
winter  and  early  summer  had  looked.  The 
boy  was  leaving  his  plain  little  home  for  the 
great  adventure  of  his  life's  fortunes.  Until 
then  he  had  been  the  charge  and  anxiety  of 
his  elders,  and  under  their  rule  and  advice. 
Now  he  was  free  to  choose ;  his  was  the 
power  of  direction,  his  the  responsibility; 
for  in  the  world  one  must  be  ranked  by  his 
own  character  and  ability,  and  doomed  by 


214  BY  THE  MORNING  BOAT. 

his  own  failures.  The  boy  lifted  his  burden 
lightly,  and  turned  with  an  eager  smile  to 
say  farewell.  But  the  old  people  and  little 
Lydia  were  speechless  with  grief;  they  could 
not  bear  to  part  with  the  pride  and  hope  and 
boyish  strength,  that  were  all  their  slender 
joy.  The  worn-out  old  man,  the  anxious 
woman  who  had  been  beaten  and  buffeted 
by  the  waves  of  poverty  and  sorrow,  the 
little  sister  with  her  dreaming  heart,  stood 
at  the  bars  and  hungrily  watched  him  go 
away.  They  feared  success  for  him  almost 
as  much  as  failure.  The  world  was  befor0 
him  now,  with  its  treasures  and  pleasures, 
but  with  those  inevitable  disappointments 
and  losses  which  old  people  know  and  fear ; 
those  sorrows  of  incapacity  and  lack  of 
judgment  which  young  hearts  go  out  to  meet 
without  foreboding.  It  was  a  world  of  love 
and  favor  to  which  little  Lydia's  brother  had 
gone  ;  but  who  would  know  her  fairy  prince, 
in  that  disguise  of  a  country  boy's  bashful- 
ness  and  humble  raiment  from  the  cheap 
counter  of  a  country  store  ?  The  household 
stood  rapt  and  silent  until  the  farm  wagon 
had  made  its  last  rise  on  the  hilly  road  and 
disappeared. 

u  Well,  he  's  left  us  now,"  said  the  sor- 


BY  THE  MORNING  BOAT.  215 

rowful,  hopeful  old  grandfather.  "  I  expect 
I  've  got  to  turn  to  an'  be  a  boy  again  my 
self.  I  feel  to  hope  'Lisha  '11  do  as  well  as 
we  covet  for  him.  I  seem  to  take  it  in,  all 
my  father  felt  when  he  let  me  go  off  to  sea0 
He  stood  where  I  'm  standin'  now,  an'  I  was 
just  as  triflin'  as  pore  'Lisha,  and  felt  full  as 
big  as  a  man.  But  Lord !  how  I  give  up 
when  it  come  night,  an'  I  took  it  in  I  was 
gone  from  home !  " 

"There,  don't  ye,  father,"  said  the  pale 
mother  gently.  She  was,  after  all,  the 
stronger  of  the  two.  "  'Lisha  's  good  an' 
honest-hearted.  You  '11  feel  real  proud  a 
year  from  now,  when  he  gits  back.  I  'm  so 
glad  he  's  got  his  watch  to  carry,  —  he  did 
feel  so  grand.  I  expect  them  poor  hens  is 
sufferin'  ;  nobody 's  thought  on  'em  this 
livin'  mornin'.  You  'd  better  step  an'  feed 
'em  right  away,  sir."  She  could  hardly 
speak  for  sorrow  and  excitement,  but  the 
old  man  was  diverted  at  once,  and  hobbled 
away  with  cheerful  importance  on  his  two 
canes.  Then  she  looked  round  at  the  poor, 
stony  little  farm  almost  angrily.  "  He  'd  no 
natural  turn  for  the  sea,  'Lisha  had  n't ;  but 
I  might  have  kept  him  with  me  if  the  land 
was  good  for  anything." 


216  BY  THE  MORNING  BOAT. 

Elislia  felt  as  if  he  were  in  a  dream,  now 
that  his  great  adventure  was  begun.  He 
answered  John  Sykes's  questions  mechani 
cally,  and  his  head  was  a  little  dull  and 
dazed.  Then  he  began  to  fear  that  the  slow 
plodding  of  the  farm  horses  would  make  him 
too  late  for  the  stearaboat,  and  with  sudden 
satisfaction  pulled  out  the  great  watch  to  see 
if  there  were  still  time  enough  to  get  to  the 
landing.  Pie  was  filled  with  remorse  be 
cause  it  was  impossible  to  remember  whether 
he  had  thanked  Ma'am  Stover  for  her  gift. 
It  seemed  like  a  thing  of  life  and  conscious 
ness  as  he  pushed  it  back  into  his  tight 
pocket.  John  Sykes  looked  at  him  curiously. 
"  Why,  that 's  old  Ma'am  Stover's  timepiece, 
ain't  it  ?  Lend  it  to  ye,  did  she  ?  " 

"  Gave  it  to  me,"  answered  Elisha  proudly. 

"  You  be  careful  of  that  watch,"  said  the 
driver  soberly ;  and  Elisha  nodded. 

"  Well,  good-day  to  ye ;  be  a  stiddy  lad," 
advised  John  Sykes,  a  few  minutes  afterward. 
"  Don't  start  in  too  smart  an'  scare  'm  up  to 
Boston.  Pride  an'  ambition  was  the  down 
fall  o'  old  Cole's  dog.  There,  sonny,  the 
bo't  ain't  nowheres  in  sight,  for  all  your 
fidgetin' ! " 

They  both  smiled  broadly  at  the  humor- 


BY  THE  MORNING  BOAT.  217 

ous  warning,  and  as  the  old  wagon  rattled 
away,  Elisha  stood  a  moment  looking  after 
it  ;  then  he  went  down  to  the  wharf  by 
winding  ways  among  piles  of  decayed  tim 
ber  and  disused  lobster-pots,  A  small  group 
of  travelers  and  spectators  had  already  as 
sembled,  and  they  stared  at  him  in  a  way 
that  made  him  feel  separated  from  his  kind, 
though  some  of  them  had  come  to  see  him  de 
part.  One  unenlightened  acquaintance  in 
quired  if  Elisha  were  expecting  friends  by 
that  morning's  boat ;  and  when  he  explained 
that  he  was  going  away  himself,  asked 
kindly  whether  it  was  to  be  as  far  as  Bath. 
Elisha  mentioned  the  word  "  Boston  "  with 
scorn  and  compassion,  but  he  did  not  feel 
like  discussing  his  brilliant  prospects  now, 
as  he  had  been  more  than  ready  to  do  the 
week  before.  Just  then  a  deaf  old  woman 
asked  for  the  time  of  day.  She  sat  next 
him  on  the  battered  bench. 

"  Be  you  going  up  to  Bath,  dear  ?  "  she 
demanded  suddenly ;  and  he  said  yes. 
"  Guess  I  '11  stick  to  you,  then,  fur 's  you 
go ;  't  is  kind  o'  blind  in  them  big  places." 
Elisha  faintly  nodded  a  meek  but  grudging 
assent ;  then,  after  a  few  moments,  he  boldly 
rose,  tall  umbrella  in  hand,  and  joined  the 


218  BY  THE  MORNING  BOAT. 

talkative  company  of  old  and  young  men  at 
the  other  side  of  the  wharf.  They  proceeded 
to  make  very  light  of  a  person's  going  to 
Boston  to  enter  upon  his  business  career ; 
but,  after  all,  their  thoughts  were  those  of 
mingled  respect  and  envy.  Most  of  them 
had  seen  Boston,  but  no  one  save  Elisha 
was  going  there  that  day  to  stay  for  a  whole 
year.  It  made  him  feel  like  a  city  man. 

The  steamer  whistled  loud  and  hoarse  be 
fore  she  came  in  sight,  but  presently  the 
gay  flags  showed  close  by  above  the  pointed 
spruces.  Then  she  came  jarring  against  the 
wharf,  and  the  instant  bustle  and  hurry,  the 
strange  faces  of  the  passengers,  and  the  loud 
rattle  of  freight  going  on  board,  were  as  con 
fusing  and  exciting  as  if  a  small  piece  of 
Boston  itself  had  been  dropped  into  that 
quiet  cove. 

The  people  on  the  wharf  shouted  cheerful 
good-byes,  to  which  the  young  traveler  re 
sponded  ;  then  he  seated  himself  well  astern 
to  enjoy  the  views,  and  felt  as  if  he  had 
made  a  thousand  journeys.  He  bought  a 
newspaper,  and  began  to  read  it  with  much 
pride  and  a  beating  heart.  The  little  old 
woman  came  and  sat  beside  him,  and  talked 
straight  on  whether  he  listened  or  not,  until 


BY  THE  MORNING  BOAT.  219 

he  was  afraid  of  what  the  other  passengers 
might  think,  but  nobody  looked  that  way, 
and  he  could  not  find  anything  in  the  paper 
that  he  cared  to  read.  Alone,  but  unfettered 
and  aflame  with  courage  ;  to  himself  he  was 
not  the  boy  who  went  away,  but  the  proud 
man  who  one  day  would  be  coming  home. 

"  Goin'  to  Boston,  be  ye  ?  "  asked  the  old 
lady  for  the  third  time  ;  and  it  was  still  a 
pleasure  to  say  yes,  when  the  boat  swung 
round,  and  there,  far  away  on  its  gray  and 
green  pasture  slope,  with  the  dark  ever 
greens  standing  back,  were  the  low  gray 
house,  and  the  little  square  barn,  and  the 
lines  of  fence  that  shut  in  his  home.  He 
strained  his  eyes  to  see  if  any  one  were 
watching  from  the  door.  He  had  almost 
forgotten  that  they  could  see  him  still.  He 
sprang  to  the  boat's  side  :  yes,  his  mother 
remembered;  there  was  something  white 
waving  from  the  doorway.  The  whole  land 
scape  faded  from  his  eyes  except  that  far 
away  gray  house ;  his  heart  leaped  back 
with  love  and  longing ;  he  gazed  and  gazed, 
until  a  height  of  green  forest  came  between 
and  shut  the  picture  out.  Then  the  coun 
try  boy  went  on  alone  to  make  his  way  in 
the  wide  world. 


IN  DARK  NEW  ENGLAND  DAYS. 


THE  last  of  the  neighbors  was  going 
home ;  officious  Mrs.  Peter  Downs  had  lin 
gered  late  and  sought  for  additional  house 
work  with  which  to  prolong  her  stay.  She 
had  talked  incessantly,  and  buzzed  like  a 
busy  bee  as  she  helped  to  put  away  the  best 
crockery  after  the  funeral  supper,  while  the 
sisters  Betsey  and  Hannah  Knowles  grew 
every  moment  more  forbidding  and  unwill 
ing  to  speak.  They  lighted  a  solitary  small 
oil  lamp  at  last,  as  if  for  Sunday  evening 
idleness,  and  put  it  on  the  side  table  in  the 
kitchen. 

"  We  ain't  intending  to  make  a  late  even 
ing  of  it,"  announced  Betsey,  the  elder, 
standing  before  Mrs.  Downs  in  an  expec 
tant,  final  way,  making  an  irresistible  oppor 
tunity  for  saying  good  -  night.  "  I  'm  sure 
we  're  more  than  obleeged  to  ye,  —  ain't  we, 
Hannah  ?  —  but  I  don't  feel 's  if  we  ought 


IN  DARK  NE  W  ENGLAND  DA  YS.      221 

to  keep  ye  longer.  We  ain't  going  to  do  no 
more  to-night,  but  set  down  a  spell  and  kind 
of  collect  ourselves,  and  then  make  for  bed." 

Susan  Downs  offered  one  more  plea.  "  I  'd 
stop  all  night  with  ye  an'  welcome  ;  't  is  get- 
tin'  late  —  an'  dark,"  she  added  plaintively; 
but  the  sisters  shook  their  heads  quickly, 
while  Hannah  said  that  they  might  as  well 
get  used  to  staying  alone,  since  they  would 
have  to  do  it  first  or  last.  In  spite  of  her 
self  Mrs.  Downs  was  obliged  to  put  on  her 
funeral  best  bonnet  and  shawl  and  start  on 
her  homeward  way. 

"  Closed-mouthed  old  maids  !  "  she  grum 
bled  as  the  door  shut  behind  her  all  too  soon 
and  denied  her  the  light  of  the  lamp  along  the 
footpath..  Suddenly  there  was  a  bright  ray 
from  the  window,  as  if  some  one  had  pushed 
back  the  curtain  and  stood  with  the  lamp 
close  to  the  sash.  "  That 's  Hannah,"  said 
the  retreating  guest.  "  She  'd  told  me  some- 
thin'  about  things,  I  know,  if  it  had  n't  'a' 
been  for  Betsey.  Catch  me  workin'  myself  to 
pieces  again  for  'em."  But,  however  grudg 
ingly  this  was  said,  Mrs.  Downs's  conscience 
told  her  that  the  industry  of  the  past  two 
days  had  been  somewhat  selfish  on  her  part ; 
she  had  hoped  that  in  the  excitement  of  this 


222      IN  DARK  NEW  ENGLAND  DAYS. 

unexpected  funeral  season  she  might  for 
once  be  taken  into  the  sisters'  confidence. 
More  than  this,  she  knew  that  they  were 
certain  of  her  motive,  and  had  deliberately 
refused  the  expected  satisfaction.  "  'T  ain't 
as  if  I  was  one  o'  them  curious  busy-bodies 
anyway,"  she  said  to  herself  pityingly ;  "  they 
might  'a'  neighbored  with  somebody  for  once, 
I  do  believe."  Everybody  would  have  a 
question  ready  for  her  the  next  day,  for  it 
was  known  that  she  had  been  slaving  her 
self  devotedly  since  the  news  had  come  of 
old  Captain  Knowles's  sudden  death  in  his 
bed  from  a  stroke,  the  last  of  three  which 
had  in  the  course  of  a  year  or  two  changed 
him  from  a  strong  old  man  to  a  feeble, 
chair-bound  cripple. 

Mrs.  Downs  stepped  bravely  along  the 
dark  country  road  ;  she  could  see  a  light  in 
her  own  kitchen  window  half  a  mile  away, 
and  did  not  stop  to  notice  either  the  pene 
trating  dampness,  or  the  shadowy  woods  at 
her  right.  It  was  a  cloudy  night,  but  there 
was  a  dim  light  over  the  open  fields.  She 
had  a  disposition  of  mind  towards  the  exci 
ting  circumstances  of  death  and  burial,  and 
was  in  request  at  such  times  among  her 
neighbors  ;  in  this  she  was  like  a  city  person 


IN  DARK  NEW   ENGLAND  DAYS.      223 

who  prefers  tragedy  to  comedy,  but  not 
having  the  semblance  within  her  reach,  she 
made  the  most  of  looking  on  at  real  griefs 
and  departures. 

Some  one  was  walking  towards  her  in  the 
road ;  suddenly  she  heard  footsteps.  The 
figure  stopped,  then  it  came  forward  again. 

"  Oh,  't  is  you,  ain't  it  ?  "  with  a  tone  of 
disappointment.  "  I  cal'lated  you  'd  stop  all 
night,  't  had  got  to  be  so  late,  an'  I  was  just 
going  over  to  the  Knowles  gals'  ;  well,  to 
kind  o'  ask  how  they  be,  an'"  —  Mr.  Peter 
Downs  was  evidently  counting  on  his  visit. 

"  They  never  passed  me  the  compliment," 
replied  the  wife.  "  I  declare  I  did  n't  covet 
the  walk  home  ;  I  'm  most  beat  out,  bein' 
on  foot  so  much.  I  was  'most  put  out  with 
'em  for  letten'  of  me  see  quite  so  plain 
that  my  room  was  better  than  my  company. 
But  I  don't  know  's  I  blame  'em  ;  they  want 
to  look  an'  see  what  they  've  got,  an'  kind 
of  git  by  theirselves,  I  expect.  'T  was  nat 
ural." 

Mrs.  Downs  knew  that  her  husband 
would  resent  her  first  statements,  being  a 
sensitive  and  grumbling  man.  She  had 
formed  a  pacific  habit  of  suiting  her  re 
marks  to  his  point  of  view,  to  save  an  out- 


224      IN  DARK  NEW  ENGLAND  DAYS. 

burst.     He  contented   himself  with  calling 

o 

the  Knowles  girls  hoggish,  and  put  a  direct 
question  as  to  whether  they  had  let  fall  any 
words  about  their  situation,  but  Martha 
Downs  was  obliged  to  answer  in  the  nega- 
ative. 

"  Was  Enoch  Holt  there  after  the  folks 
come  back  from  the  grave  ?  " 

"  He  wa'n't ;  they  never  give  him  no  en 
couragement  neither." 

"He  appeared  well,  I  must  say,"  con 
tinued  Peter  Downs.  "  He  took  his  place 
next  but  one  behind  us  in  the  procession, 
'long  of  Melinda  Dutch,  an'  walked  to  an' 
from  with  her,  give  her  his  arm,  and  then 
I  never  see  him  after  we  got  back  ;  but  I 
thought  he  might  be  somewhere  in  the  house, 
an'  I  was  out  about  the  barn  an'  so  on." 

"  They  was  civil  to  him.  I  was  by  when 
he  come,  just  steppin'  out  of  the  bedroom 
after  we  'd  finished  layin'  tho  old  Cap'n  into 
his  coffin.  Hannah  looked  real  pleased 
when  she  see  Enoch,  as  if  she  had  n't  really 
expected  him,  but  Betsey  stuck  out  her 
hand  's  if  't  was  an  eend  o'  board,  an'  drawed 
her  face  solemner  'n  ever.  There,  they  had 
natural  feelin's.  He  was  their  own  father 
when  all  was  said,  the  Cap'n  was,  an'  I  don't 


IN  DARK  NEW  ENGLAND  DAYS.      225 

know  but  he  was  clever  to  'em  in  his  way, 
'ceptin'  when  he  disappointed  Hannah  about 
her  marryin'  Jake  Good'in.  She  1'arned  to 
respect  the  old  Cap'n's  foresight,  too." 

"  Sakes  alive,  Marthy,  how  you  do  knock 
folks  down  with  one  hand  an'  set  'em  up 
with  t'  other,"  chuckled  Mr.  Downs.  They 
next  discussed  the  Captain's  appearance  as 
he  lay  in  state  in  the  front  room,  a  subject 
which,  with  its  endless  ramifications,  would 
keep  the  whole  neighborhood  interested  for 
weeks  to  come. 

An  hour  later  the  twinkling  light  in  the 
Downs  house  suddenly  disappeared.  As 
Martha  Downs  took  a  last  look  out  of  doors 
through  her  bedroom  window  she  could  see 

O 

no  other  light  ;  the  neighbors  had  all  gone 
to  bed.  It  was  a  little  past  nine,  and  the 
night  was  damp  and  still. 

II. 

The  Captain  Knowles  place  was  east 
ward  from  the  Downs's,  and  a  short  turn  in 
the  road  and  the  piece  of  hard-wood  growth 
hid  one  house  from  the  other.  At  this  un- 
wontedly  late  hour  the  elderly  sisters  were 
still  sitting  in  their  warm  kitchen  ;  there 
were  bright  coals  under  the  singing  tea-ket- 


226      IN  DARK  NEW  ENGLAND  DAYS. 

tie  which  hung  from  the  crane  by  three  or 
four  long  pothooks.  Betsey  Knowles  ob 
jected  when  her  sister  offered  to  put  on 
more  wood. 

"  Father  never  liked  to  leave  no  great  of  a 
fire,  even  though  he  slept  right  here  in  the 
bedroom.  He  said  this  floor  was  one  that 
would  light  an'  catch  easy,  you  r'member." 

"  Another  winter  we  can  move  down 
and  take  the  bedroom  ourselves  —  't  will  be 
warmer  for  us,"  suggested  Hannah;  but 
Betsey  shook  her  head  doubtfully.  The 
thought  of  their  old  father's  grave,  un- 
watched  and  undefended  in  the  outermost 
dark  field,  filled  their  hearts  with  a  strange 
tenderness.  They  had  been  his  dutiful,  pa 
tient  slaves,  and  it  seemed  like  disloyalty 
to  have  abandoned  the  poor  shape ;  to  be  sit 
ting  there  disregarding  the  thousand  require 
ments  and  services  of  the  past.  More  than 
all,  they  were  facing  a  free  future  ;  they 
were  their  own  mistresses  at  last,  though 
past  sixty  years  of  age.  Hannah  was  still 
a  child  at  heart.  She  chased  away  a  dread 
suspicion,  when*  Betsey  forbade  the  wood, 
lest  this  elder  sister,  who  favored  their  fa 
ther's  looks,  might  take  his  place  as  stern 
ruler  of  the  household. 


7.V  DARK  NEW  ENGLAND  DAYS.      227 

"  Betsey,"  said  the  younger  sister  sud 
denly,  "  we  '11  have  us  a  cook  stove,  won't 
we,  next  winter  ?  I  expect  we  're  going  to 
have  something  to  do  with  ?  " 

Betsey  did  not  answer  ;  it  was  impossible 
to  say  whether  she  truly  felt  grief  or  only 
assumed  it.  She  had  been  sober  and  silent 
for  the  most  part  since  she  routed  neighbor 
Downs,  though  she  answered  her  sister's 
prattling  questions  with  patience  and  sym 
pathy.  Now,  she  rose  from  her  chair  and 
went  to  one  of  the  windows,  and,  pushing 
back  the  sash  curtain,  pulled  the  wooden 
shutter  across  and  hasped  it. 

"I  ain't  going  to  bed  just  yet,"  she  ex 
plained.  "  I  've  been  a-waiting  to  make  sure 
nobody  was  coming  in.  I  don't  know 's 
there  '11  be  any  better  time  to  look  in  the 
chest  and  see  what  we  've  got  to  depend  on. 
We  never  '11  get  no  chance  to  do  it  by  day." 

Hannah  looked  frightened  for  a  moment, 
then  nodded,  and  turned  to  the  opposite  win 
dow  and  pulled  that  shutter  with  much  diffi 
culty  ;  it  had  always  caught  and  hitched  and 
been  provoking  —  a  warped  piece  of  red  oak, 
when  even-grained  white  pine  would  have 
saved  strength  and  patience  to  three  genera 
tions  of  the  Knowles  race.  Then  the  sisters 


228      IN  DARK  NEW  ENGLAND  DAYS. 

crossed  the  kitchen  and  opened  the  bedroom 
door.  Hannah  shivered  a  little  as  the  colder 
air  struck  her,  and  her  heart  beat  loudly. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  same  with  Betsey. 

The  bedroom  was  clean  and  orderly  for  the 
funeral  guests.  Instead  of  the  blue  homespun 
there  was  a  beautifully  quilted  white  coverlet 
which  had  been  part  of  their  mother's  wed 
ding  furnishing,  and  this  made  the  bedstead 
with  its  four  low  posts  look  unfamiliar  and 
awesome.  The  lamplight  shone  through  the 
kitchen  door  behind  them,  not  very  bright 
at  best,  but  Betsey  reached  under  the  bed, 
and  with  all  the  strength  she  could  muster 
pulled  out  the  end  of  a  great  sea  chest.  The 
sisters  tugged  together  and  pushed,  and  made 
the  most  of  their  strength  before  they  finally 
brought  it  through  the  narrow  door  into  the 
kitchen.  The  solemnity  of  the  deed  made 
them  both  whisper  as  they  talked,  and  Han 
nah  did  not  dare  to  say  what  was  in  her  timid 
heart  —  that  she  would  rather  brave  discov 
ery  by  daylight  than  such  a  feeling  of  being 
disapprovingly  watched  now,  in  the  dead  of 
night.  There  came  a  slight  sound  outside 
the  house  which  made  her  look  anxiously  at 
Betsey,  but  Betsey  remained  tranquil. 

"  It  *s  nothing  but  a  stick  falling  down  the 


IN  DARK  NEW  ENGLAND  DAYS.      229 

woodpile,"  she  answered  in  a  contemptuous 
whisper,  and  the  younger  woman  was  reas 
sured. 

Betsey  reached  deep  into  her  pocket  and 
found  a  great  key  which  was  worn  smooth 
and  bright  like  silver,  and  never  had  been 
trusted  willingly  into  even  her  own  careful 
hands.  Hannah  held  the  lamp,  and  the  two 
thin  figures  bent  eagerly  over  the  lid  as  it 
opened.  Their  shadows  were  waving  about 
the  low  walls,  and  looked  like  strange  shapes 
bowing  and  dancing  behind  them. 

The  chest  was  stoutly  timbered,  as  if  it 
were  built  in  some  ship  -  yard,  and  there 
were  heavy  wrought-iron  hinges  and  a  large 
escutcheon  for  the  keyhole  that  the  ship's 
blacksmith  might  have  hammered  out.  On 
the  top  somebody  had  scratched  deeply  the 
crossed  lines  for  a  game  of  fox  and  geese, 
which  had  a  trivial,  irreverent  look,  and 
might  have  been  the  unforgiven  fault  of  some 
idle  ship's  boy.  The  sisters  had  hardly  dared 
look  at  the  chest  or  to  signify  their  knowl 
edge  of  its  existence,  at  unwary  times.  They 
had  swept  carefully  about  it  year  after  year, 
and  wondered  if  it  were  indeed  full  of  gold 
as  the  neighbors  used  to  hint ;  but  no  matter 
how  much  found  a  way  in,  little  had  found 


230      IN  DARK  NEW  ENGLAND  DAYS. 

the  way  out.  They  had  been  hampered  all 
their  lives  for  money,  and  in  consequence 
had  developed  a  wonderful  facility  for  spin 
ning  and  weaving,  mending  and  making. 
Their  small  farm  was  an  early  example  of 
intensive  farming  ;  they  were  allowed  to  use 
its  products  in  a  niggardly  way,  but  the 
money  that  was  paid  for  wool,  for  hay,  for 
wood,  and  for  summer  crops  had  all  gone 
into  the  chest.  The  old  captain  was  a  hard 
master;  he  rarely  commended  and  often 
blamed.  Hannah  trembled  before  him,  but 
Betsey  faced  him  sturdily,  being  amazingly 
like  him,  with  a  feminine  difference  ;  as  like 
as  a  ruled  person  can  be  to  a  ruler,  for  the 
discipline  of  life  had  taught  the  man  to  ag 
gress,  the  woman  only  to  defend.  In  the 
chest  was  a  fabled  sum  of  prize-money,  be 
sides  these  slender  earnings  of  many  years ; 
all  the  sisters'  hard  work  and  self-sacrifice 
were  there  in  money  and  a  mysterious  largess 
besides.  All  their  lives  they  had  been  look 
ing  forward  to  this  hour  of  ownership. 

There  was  a  solemn  hush  in  the  house  ; 
the  two  sisters  were  safe  from  their  neigh 
bors,  and  there  was  no  fear  of  interruption 
at  such  an  hour  in  that  hard-working  com 
munity,  tired  with  a  day's  work  that  had 


IN  DARK  NEW  ENGLAND  DAYS.      231 

been  early  begun.  If  any  one  came  knock 
ing  at  the  door,  both  door  and  windows  were 
securely  fastened. 

The  eager  sisters  bent  above  the  chest, 
they  held  their  breath  and  talked  in  softest 
whispers.  With  stealthy  tread  a  man  came 
out  of  the  woods  near  by. 

He  stopped  to  listen,  came  nearer,  stopped 
again,  and  then  crept  close  to  the  old  house. 
He  stepped  upon  the  banking,  next  the  win 
dow  with  the  warped  shutter  ;  there  was  a 
knothole  in  it  high  above  the  women's  heads, 
towards  the  top.  As  they  leaned  over  the 
chest,  an  eager  eye  watched  them.  If  they 
had  turned  that  way  suspiciously,  the  eye 
might  have  caught  the  flicker  of  the  lamp 
and  betrayed  itself.  No,  they  were  too  busy : 
the  eye  at  the  shutter  watched  and  watched. 

There  was  a  certain  feeling  of  relief  in  the 
sisters'  minds  because  the  contents  of  the 
chest  were  so  commonplace  at  first  sight. 
There  were  some  old  belongings  dating  back 
to  their  father's  early  days  of  seafaring. 
They  unfolded  a  waistcoat  pattern  or  two  of 
figured  stuff  which  they  had  seen  him  fold 
and  put  away  again  and  again.  Once  he  had 
given  Betsey  a  gay  China  silk  handkerchief, 
and  here  were  two  more  like  it.  They  had 


232      IN  DARK  NEW  ENGLAND   DAYS. 

not  known  what  a  store  of  treasures  might 
be  waiting  for  them,  but  the  reality  so  far  was 
disappointing ;  there  was  much  spare  room 
to  begin  with,  and  the  wares  within  looked 
pinched  and  few.  There  were  bundles  of 
papers,  old  receipts,  some  letteus  in  two  not 
very  thick  bundles,  some  old  account  books 
with  worn  edges,  and  a  blackened  silver  can 
which  looked  very  small  in  comparison  with 
their  anticipation,  being  an  heirloom  and 
jealously  hoarded  and  secreted  by  the  old 
man.  The  women  began  to  feel  as  if  his  lean 
angry  figure  were  bending  with  them  over 
the  sea  chest. 

They  opened  a  package  wrapped  in  many 
layers  of  old  soft  paper  —  a  worked  piece  of 
Indian  muslin,  and  an  embroidered  red  scarf 
which  they  had  never  seen  before.  "  He 
must  have  brought  them  home  to  mother," 
said  Betsey  with  a  great  outburst  of  feel 
ing.  "  He  never  was  the  same  man  again  ; 
he  never  would  let  nobody  else  have  them 
when  he  found  she  was  dead,  poor  old  fa 
ther!" 

Hannah  looked  wistfully  at  the  treasures. 
She  rebuked  herself  for  selfishness,  but  she 
thought  of  her  pinched  girlhood  and  the  de 
light  these  things  would  have  been.  Ah  yes ! 


IN  DARK  NEW  ENGLAND  DAYS.      233 

it  was  too  late  now  for  many  things  besides 
the  sprigged  muslin.  "  If  I  was  young  as  I 
was  once  there  's  lots  o'  things  I  'd  like  to  do 
now  I  'm  free,"  said  Hannah  with  a  gentle 
sigh ;  but  her  sister  checked  her  anxiously 
—  it  was  fitting  that  they  should  preserve  a 
semblance  of  mourning  even  to  themselves. 

The  lamp  stood  in  a  kitchen  chair  at  the 
chest's  end  and  shone  full  across  their  faces. 
Betsey  looked  intent  and  sober  as  she  turned 
over  the  old  man's  treasures.  Under  the  In 
dia  mull  was  an  antique  pair  of  buff  trousers, 
a  waistcoat  of  strange  old-fashioned  foreign 
stuff,  and  a  blue  coat  with  brass  buttons, 
broitght  home  from  over  seas,  as  the  women 
knew,  for  their  father's  wedding  clothes. 
They  had  seen  him  carry  them  out  at  long 
intervals  to  hang  them  in  the  spring  sun 
shine  ;  he  had  been  very  feeble  the  last  time, 
and  Hannah  remembered  that  she  had  longed 
to  take  them  from  his  shaking  hands. 

"  I  declare  for  't  I  wish  't  we  had  laid  him 
out  in  'em,  'stead  o'  the  robe,"  she  whis 
pered  ;  but  Betsey  made  no  answer.  She 
was  kneeling  still,  but  held  herself  upright 
and  looked  away.  It  was  evident  that  she 
was  lost  in  her  own  thoughts. 

"  I  can't  find  nothing  else  by  eyesight," 


234      IN  DARK  NEW  ENGLAND  DAYS. 

she  muttered.  "  This  chest  never  'd  be  so 
heavy  with  them  old  clothes.  Stop  !  Hold 
that  light  down,  Hannah;  there's  a  place 
underneath  here.  Them  papers  in  the  till 
takes  a  shallow  part.  Oh,  my  gracious !  See 
here,  will  ye?  Hold  the  light,  hold  the 
light!" 

There  was  a  hidden  drawer  in  the  chest's 
side  —  a  long,  deep  place,  and  it  was  full  of 
gold  pieces.  Hannah  had  seated  herself  in 
the  chair  to  be  out  of  her  sister's  way.  She 
held  the  lamp  with  one  hand  and  gathered 
her  apron  on  her  lap  with  the  other,  while 
Betsey,  exultant  and  hawk-eyed,  took  out 
handful  after  handful  of  heavy  coins,  letting 
them  jingle  and  chink,  letting  them  shine 
in  the  lamp's  rays,  letting  them  roll  across 
the  floor  —  guineas,  dollars,  doubloons,  old 
French  and  Spanish  and  English  gold ! 

Now,  now  I  Look  !  The  eye  at  the  win 
dow  ! 

At  last  they  have  found  it  all ;  the  bag  of 
silver,  the  great  roll  of  bank  bills,  and  the 
heavy  weight  of  gold  —  the  prize-money  that 
had  been  like  Robinson  Crusoe's  in  the  cave. 
They  were  rich  women  that  night ;  their 
faces  grew  young  again  as  they  sat  side  by 
side  and  exulted  while  the  old  kitchen  grew 


IN  DARK  NEW  ENGLAND  DAYS.      235 

cold.  There  was  nothing  they  might  not  do 
within  the  range  of  their  timid  ambitions ; 
they  were  women  of  fortune  now  and  their 
own  mistresses.  They  were  beginning  at  last 
to  live. 

The  watcher  outside  was  cramped  and 
chilled.  He  let  himself  down  softly  from  the 
high  step  of  the  winter  banking,  and  crept 
toward  the  barn,  where  he  might  bury  him 
self  in  the  hay  and  think.  His  ringers  were 
quick  to  find  the  peg  that  opened  the  little 
barn  door ;  the  beasts  within  were  startled 
and  stumbled  to  their  feet,  then  went  back 
to  their  slumbers.  The  night  wore  on ;  the 
light  spring  rain  began  to  fall,  and  the  sound 
of  it  on  the  house  roof  close  down  upon  the 
sisters'  bed  lulled  them  quickly  to  sleep. 
Twelve,  one,  two  o'clock  passed  by. 

They  had  put  back  the  money  and  the 
clothes  and  the  minor  goods  and  treasures 
and  pulled  the  chest  back  into  the  bedroom 
so  that  it  was  out  of  sight  from  the  kitchen  ; 
the  bedroom  door  was  always  shut  by  day. 
The  younger  sister  wished  to  carry  the 
money  to  their  own  room,  but  Betsey  dis 
dained  such  precaution.  The  money  had 
always  been  safe  in  the  old  chest,  and  there 
it  should  stay.  The  next  week  they  would 


236      IN  DARK  NEW  ENGLAND  DAYS. 

go  to  Riverport  and  put  it  into  the  bank ; 
it  was  no  use  to  lose  the  interest  any  longer. 
Because  their  father  had  lost  some  invested 
money  in  his  early  youth,  it  did  not  follow 
that  every  bank  was  faithless.  Betsey's  self- 
assertion  was  amazing,  but  they  still  whis 
pered  to  each  other  as  they  got  ready  for 
bed.  With  strange  forgetfulness  Betsey 
had  laid  the  chest  key  on  the  white  cover 
let  in  the  bedroom  and  left  it  there. 

III. 

In  August  of  that  year  the  whole  country 
side  turned  out  to  go  to  court. 

The  sisters  had  been  rich  for  one  night ; 
in  the  morning  they  waked  to  find  them 
selves  poor  with  a  bitter  pang  of  poverty  of 
which  they  had  never  dreamed.  They  had 
said  little,  but  they  grew  suddenly  pinched 
and  old.  They  could  not  tell  how  much 
money  they  had  lost,  except  that  Hannah's 
lap  was  full  of  gold,  a  weight  she  could  not 
lift  nor  carry.  After  a  few  days  of  stolid 
misery  they  had  gone  to  the  chief  lawyer  of 
their  neighborhood  to  accuse  Enoch  Holt  of 
the  robbery.  They  dressed  in  their  best  and 
walked  solemnly  side  by  side  across  the  fields 
and  along  the  road,  the  shortest  way  to  the 


IN  DARK  NEW  ENGLAND   DAYS.      237 

man  of  law.  Enoch  Holt's  daughter  saw 
them  go  as  she  stood  in  her  doorway,  and 
felt  a  cold  shiver  run  through  her  frame  as 
if  in  foreboding.  Her  father  was  not  at 
home  ;  he  had  left  for  Boston  late  on  the 
afternoon  of  Captain  Knowles's  funeral. 
He  had  had  notice  the  day  before  of  the 
coming  in  of  a  ship  in  which  he  owned  a 
thirty-second ;  there  was  talk  of  selling  the 
ship,  and  the  owners'  agent  had  summoned 
him.  He  had  taken  pains  to  go  to  the 
funeral,  because  he  and  the  old  captain  had 
been  on  bad  terms  ever  since  they  had 
bought  a  piece  of  woodland  together,  and 
the  captain  declared  himself  wronged  at  the 
settling  of  accounts.  He  was  growing  feeble 
even  then,  and  had  left  the  business  to  the 
younger  man.  Enoch  Holt  was  not  a  trusted 
man,  yet  he  had  never  before  been  openly 
accused  of  dishonesty.  He  was  not  a  pro 
fessor  of  religion,  but  foremost  on  the  secu 
lar  side  of  church  matters.  Most  of  the 
men  in  that  region  were  hard  men ;  it  was 
difficult  to  get  money,  and  there  was  little 
real  comfort  in  a  community  where  the 
sterner,  stingier,  forbidding  side  of  New 
England  life  was  well  exemplified. 

The  proper  steps  had  been  taken  by  the 


238      IN  DARK  NEW  ENGLAND  DAYS. 

officers  of  the  law,  and  in  answer  to  the  writ 
Enoch  Holt  appeared,  much  shocked  and 
very  indignant,  and  was  released  on  bail 
which  covered  the  sum  his  shipping  interest 
had  brought  him.  The  weeks  had  dragged 
by ;  June  and  July  were  long  in  passing,  and 
here  was  court  day  at  last,  and  all  the  towns 
folk  hastening  by  high-roads  and  by-roads 
to  the  court-house.  The  Knowles  girls  them 
selves  had  risen  at  break  of  day  and  walked 
the  distance  steadfastly,  like  two  of  the  three 
Fates  :  who  would  make  the  third,  to  cut 
the  thread  for  their  enemy's  disaster  ?  Pub 
lic  opinion  was  divided.  There  were  many 
voices  ready  to  speak  on  the  accused  man's 
side  ;  a  sharp-looking  acquaintance  left  his 
business  in  Boston  to  swear  that  Holt  was 
in  his  office  before  noon  on  the  day  follow 
ing  the  robbery,  and  that  he  had  spent  most 
of  the  night  in  Boston,  as  proved  by  several 
minor  details  of  their  interview.  As  for 
Holt's  young  married  daughter,  she  was  a 
favorite  with  the  townsfolk,  and  her  hus 
band  was  away  at  sea  overdue  these  last 
few  weeks.  She  sat  on  one  of  the  hard  court 
benches  with  a  young  child  in  her  arms,  born 
since  its  father  sailed ;  they  had  been  more 
or  less  unlucky,  the  Holt  family,  though 


IN  DARK  NEW  ENGLAND  DAYS.      239 

Enoch  himself  was  a  man  of  brag  and 
bluster. 

All  the  hot  August  morning,  until  the 
noon  recess,  and  all  the  hot  August  after 
noon,  fly-teased  and  wretched  with  the  heavy 
air,  the  crowd  of  neighbors  listened  to  the 
trial.  There  was  not  much  evidence 
brought ;  everybody  knew  that  Enoch  Holt 
left  the  funeral  procession  hurriedly,  and 
went  away  on  horseback  towards  Boston. 
His  daughter  knew  no  more  than  this.  The 
Boston  man  gave  his  testimony  impatiently, 
and  one  or  two  persons  insisted  that  they 
saw  the  accused  on  his  way  at  nightfall,  sev 
eral  miles  from  home. 

As  the  testimony  came  out,  it  all  tended 
to  prove  his  innocence,  though  public  opinion 
was  to  the  contrary.  The  Knowles  sisters 
looked  more  stern  and  gray  hour  by  hour  ; 
their  vengeance  was  not  to  be  satisfied  ;  their 
accusation  had  been  listened  to  and  found 
wanting,  but  their  instinctive  knowledge  of 
the  matter  counted  for  nothing.  They  must 
have  been  watched  through  the  knot-hole  of 
the  shutter ;  nobody  had  noticed  it  until, 
some  years  before,  Enoch  Holt  himself  had 
spoken  of  the  light's  shining  through  on  a 
winter's  night  as  he  came  towards  the  house. 


240      IN  DARK  NEW  ENGLAND  DAYS. 

The  chief  proof  was  that  nobody  else  could 
have  done  the  deed.  But  why  linger  over 
pros  and  cons  ?  The  jury  returned  directly 
with  a  verdict  of  "  not  proven,"  and  the 
tired  audience  left  the  court-house. 

But  not  until  Hannah  Knowles  with 
angry  eyes  had  risen  to  her  feet. 

The  sterner  elder  sister  tried  to  pull  her 
back ;  every  one  said  that  they  should  have 
looked  to  Betsey  to  say  the  awful  words  that 
followed,  not  to  her  gentler  companion.  It 
was  Hannah,  broken  and  disappointed,  who 
cried  in  a  strange  high  voice  as  Enoch  Holt 
was  passing  by  without  a  look : 

"  You  stole  it,  you  thief  !  You  know  it 
in  your  heart !  " 

The  startled  man  faltered,  then  he  faced 
the  women.  The  people  who  stood  near 
seemed  made  of  eyes  as  they  stared  to  see 
what  he  would  say. 

"  I  swear  by  my  right  hand  I  never 
touched  it." 

"  Curse  your  right  hand,  then !  "  cried 
Hannah  Knowles,  growing  tall  and  thin  like 
a  white  flame  drawing  upward.  "  Curse 
your  right  hand,  yours  and  all  your  folks' 
that  follow  you  I  May  I  live  to  see  the 
day !  " 


IN  DARK  NEW  ENGLAND   DAYS.      241 

The  people  drew  back,  while  for  a  mo 
ment  accused  and  accuser  stood  face  to  face. 
Then  Holt's  flushed  face  turned  white,  and 
he  shrank  from  the  fire  in  those  wild  eyes, 
and  walked  away  clumsily  down  the  court 
room.  Nobody  followed  him,  nobody  shook 
hands  with  him,  or  told  the  acquitted  man 
that  they  were  glad  of  his  release.  Half 
an  hour  later,  Betsey  and  Hannah  Knowles 
took  their  homeward  way,  to  begin  their  hard 
round  of  work  again.  The  horizon  that  had 
widened  with  such  glory  for  one  night,  had 
closed  round  them  again  like  an  iron  wall. 

Betsey  was  alarmed  and  excited  by  her 
sister's  uncharacteristic  behavior,  and  she 
looked  at  her  anxiously  from  time  to  time. 
Hannah  had  become  the  harder-faced  of  the 
two.  Her  disappointment  was  the  keener, 
for  she  had  kept  more  of  the  unsatisfied  de 
sires  of  her  girlhood  until  that  dreary  morn 
ing  when  they  found  the  sea-chest  rifled  and 
the  treasure  gone. 

Betsey  said  inconsequently  that  it  was  a 
pity  she  did  not  have  that  black  silk  gown 
that  would  stand  alone.  They  had  planned 
for  it  over  the  open  chest,  and  Hannah's  was 
to  be  a  handsome  green.  They  might  have 
worn  them  to  court.  But  even  the  pathetic 


242       IN  DARK  NEW  ENGLAND   DAYS. 

facetiousness  of  her  elder  sister  did  not  bring 
a  smile  to  Hannah  Knowles's  face,  and  the 
next  day  one  was  at  the  loom  and  the  other 
at  the  wheel  again.  The  neighbors  talked 
about  the  curse  with  horror  ;  in  their  minds 
a  fabric  of  sad  fate  was  spun  from  the  bitter 
words. 

The  Knowles  sisters  never  had  worn  silk 
gowns  and  they  never  would.  Sometimes 
Hannah  or  Betsey  would  stealthily  look  over 
the  chest  in  one  or  the  other's  absence.  One 
day  when  Betsey  was  very  old  and  her  mind 
had  grown  feeble,  she  tied  her  own  India 
silk  handkerchief  about  her  neck,  but  they 
never  used  the  other  two.  They  aired  the 
wedding  suit  once  every  spring  as  long  as 
they  lived.  They  were  both  too  old  and  for 
lorn  to  make  up  the  India  mull.  Nobody 
knows  how  many  times  they  took  everything 
out  of  the  heavy  old  clamped  box,  and 
peered  into  every  nook  and  corner  to  see  if 
there  was  not  a  single  gold  piece  left.  They 
never  answered  any  one  who  made  bold  to 
speak  of  their  misfortune. 


IN  DARK  NEW  ENGLAND  DAYS.      243 
IV. 

Enoch  Holt  had  been  a  seafaring  man  in 
his  early  days,  and  there  was  news  that  the 
owners  of  a  Salem  ship  in  which  he  held  a 
small  interest  wished  him  to  go  out  as  super 
cargo.  He  was  brisk  and  well  in  health, 
and  his  son-in-law,  an  honest  but  an  unlucky 
fellow,  had  done  less  well  than  usual,  so  that 
nobody  was  surprised  when  Enoch  made 
ready  for  his  voyage.  It  was  nearly  a  year 
after  the  theft,  and  nothing  had  come  so 
near  to  restoring  him  to  public  favor  as  his 
apparent  lack  of  ready  money.  He  openly 
said  that  he  put  great  hope  in  his  adventure 
to  the  Spice  Islands,  and  when  he  said  fare 
well  one  Sunday  to  some  members  of  the 
dispersing  congregation,  more  than  one  per 
son  wished  him  heartily  a  pleasant  voyage 
and  safe  return.  He  had  an  insinuating 
tone  of  voice  and  an  imploring  look  that 
day,  and  this  fact,  with  his  probable  long- 
absence  and  the  dangers  of  the  deep,  won 
him  much  sympathy.  It  is  a  shameful  thing 
to  accuse  a  man  wrongfully,  and  Enoch  Holt 
had  behaved  well  since  the  trial ;  and,  what 
is  more,  had  shown  no  accession  to  his  means 
of  living.  So  away  he  went,  with  a  fair 


244      IN  DARK  NEW  ENGLAND  DAYS. 

amount  of  good  wishes,  though  one  or  two 
persons  assured  remonstrating  listeners  that 
they  thought  it  likely  Enoch  would  make  a 
good  voyage,  better  than  common,  and  show 
himself  forwarded  when  he  came  to  port. 
Soon  after  his  departure,  Mrs.  Peter  Downs 
and  an  intimate  acquaintance  discussed  the 
ever-exciting  subject  of  the  Knowles  robbery 
over  a  friendly  cup  of  tea. 

They  were  in  the  Downs  kitchen,  and 
quite  by  themselves.  Peter  Downs  himself 
had  been  drawn  as  a  juror,  and  had  been 
for  two  days  at  the  county  town.  Mrs. 
Downs  was  giving  herself  to  social  interests 
in  his  absence,  and  Mrs.  Forder,  an  asthmatic 
but  very  companionable  person,  had  arrived 
by  two  o'clock  that  afternoon  with  her  knit 
ting  work,  sure  of  being  welcome.  The  two 
old  friends  had  first  talked  over  varied  sub 
jects  of  immediate  concern,  but  when  supper 
was  nearly  finished,  they  fell  back  upon  the 
lost  Knowles  gold,  as  has  been  already  said. 

"  They  got  a  dreadful  blow,  poor  gals," 
wheezed  Mrs.  Forder,  with  compassion. 
"  'T  was  harder  for  them  than  for  most 
folks  ;  they  'd  had  a  long  stent  with  the  ol' 
gentleman ;  very  arbitrary,  very  arbitrary." 

"Yes,'7  answered  Mrs.   Downs,  pushing 


IN  DARK  NEW  ENGLAND  DAYS.      245 

back  her  tea-cup,  then  lifting  it  again  to  see 
if  it  was  quite  empty.  "Yes,  it  took  holt 
o'  Hannah,  the  most.  I  should  'a'  said  Bet 
sey  was  a  good  deal  the  most  set  in  her 
ways  an'  would  'a'  been  most  tore  up,  but 
't  wa'n't  so." 

"  Lucky  that  Holt's  folks  sets  on  the  other 
aisle  in  the  meetin'-house,  I  do  consider,  so 't 
they  need  n't  face  each  other  sure  as  Sab 
bath  comes  round." 

"  I  see  Hannah  aiv  him  come  face  to  face 
two  Sabbaths  afore  Enoch  left.  So  hap 
pened  he  dallied  to  have  a  word  'long  o' 
Deacon  Good'in,  an'  him  an'  Hannah  stepped 
front  of  each  other  'fore  they  knowed  what 
they  's  about.  I  sh'd  thought  her  eyes  'd 
looked  right  through  him.  No  one  of  'em 
took  the  word ;  Enoch  he  slinked  off  pretty 
quick." 

"  I  see  'em  too,"  said  Mrs.  Forder  ;  "  made 
my  blood  run  cold." 

"  Nothin'  ain't  come  of  the  curse  yit,"  — 
Mrs.  Downs  lowered  the  tone  of  her  voice, 
—  "  least,  folks  says  so.  It  kind  o'  worries 
pore  Phoebe  Holt — Mis'  Dow,  I  would  say. 
She  was  narved  all  up  at  the  time  o'  the 
trial,  an'  when  her  next  baby  come  into  the 
world,  first  thin'  she  made  out  t'  ask  me  was 


246      IN  DARK  NEW  ENGLAND  DAYS. 

whether  it  seemed  likely,  an'  she  gived  me  a 
pleadin'  look  as  if  I  'd  got  to  tell  her  what 
she  had  n't  heart  to  ask.  '  Yes,  dear,' 
says  I,  '  put  up  his  little  hands  to  me  kind 
of  wonted ' ;  an'  she  turned  a  look  on  me 
like  another  creatur',  so  pleased  an'  con 
tented." 

"  I  s'pose  you  don't  see  no  great  of  the 
Knowles  gals?"  inquired  Mrs.  Forder,  who 
lived  two  miles  away  in  the  other  direction. 

"  They  stepped  to  the  door  yisterday  when 
I  was  passin'  by,  an'  I  went  in  an'  set  a  spell 
long  of  'em,"  replied  the  hostess.  "  They  'd 
got  pestered  with  that  oF  loom  o'  theirn. 
Tore  I  thought,  says  I,  '  'T  is  all  worn  out, 
Betsey,'  says  I.  '  Why  on  airth  don't  ye 
git  somebody  to  git  some  o'  your  own  wood 
an'  season  it  well  so  't  won't  warp,  same  's 
mine  done,  an'  build  ye  a  new  one  ? '  But 
Betsey  muttered  an'  twitched  away ;  't  wa'n't 
like  her,  but  they  're  dis'p'inted  at  every 
turn,  I  s'pose,  an'  feel  poor  where  they  've 
got  the  same  's  ever  to  do  with.  Hannah's 
a-coughin'  this  spring 's  if  somethin'  ailed 
her.  I  asked  her  if  she  had  bad  feelin's  in 
her  pipes,  an'  she  said  yis,  she  had,  but  not 
to  speak  of  't  before  Betsey.  I  'm  goin'  to 
fix  her  up  some  hoarhound  an'  elecampane 


IN  DARK  NEW  ENGLAND  DAYS.       247 

quick  's  the  ground  's  nice  an'  warm  an' 
roots  livens  up  a  grain  more.  They  're  limp 
an'  wizened  'long  to  the  fust  of  the  spring. 
Them  would  be  service'ble,  simmered  away 
to  a  syrup  'long  o'  molasses ;  now  don't  you 
think  so,  Mis'  Forder  ?  " 

"  Excellent,"  replied  the  wheezing  dame. 
"  I  covet  a  portion  myself,  now  you  speak. 
Nothin'  cures  my  complaint,  but  a  new  rem 
edy  takes  holt  clever  sometimes,  an'  eases 
me  for  a  spell."  And  she  gave  a  plaintive 
sigh,  and  began  to  knit  again. 

Mrs.  Downs  rose  and  pushed  the  supper- 
table  to  the  wall  and  drew  her  chair  nearer 
to  the  stove.  The  April  nights  were  chilly. 

"  The  folks  is  late  comin'  after  me,"  said 
Mrs.  Forder,  ostentatiously.  "  I  may  's  well 
confess  that  I  told  'em  if  they  was  late 
with  the  work  they  might  let  go  o'  fetchin' 
o'  roe  an'  I  'd  walk  home  in  the  mornin'  ; 
take  it  easy  when  I  was  fresh.  Course  I 
mean  ef  't  would  n't  put  you  out :  I  knowed 
you  was  all  alone,  an'  I  kind  o'  wanted  a 
change." 

"  Them  words  was  in  my  mind  to  utter 
while  we  was  to  table,"  avowed  Mrs.  Downs, 
hospitably.  "  I  ain't  reelly  af  eared,  but  't  is 
sort  o'  creepy  fastenin'  up  an'  goin'  to  bed 


248      IN  DARK  NEW  ENGLAND  DAYS. 

alone.  Nobody  can't  help  hearkin',  an* 
every  common  noise  starts  you.  I  never 
used  to  give  nothin'  a  thought  till  the 
Knowleses  was  robbed,  though." 

"  'T  was  mysterious,  I  do  maintain,"  ac 
knowledged  Mrs.  Forder.  "  Comes  over  me 
sometimes  p'raps  't  was  n't  Enoch ;  he  'd  'a* 
branched  out  more  in  course  o'  time.  I  'm 
waitin'  to  see  if  he  does  extry  well  to  sea 
'fore  I  let  my  mind  come  to  bear  on  his 
bein'  clean  handed." 

"  Plenty  thought  't  was  the  ole  Cap'n 
come  back  for  it  an'  sperited  it  away. 
Enough  said  that 't  was  n't  no  honest  gains  ; 
most  on  't  was  prize-money  o'  slave  ships, 
an'  all  kinds  o'  devil's  gold  was  mixed  in.  I 
s'pose  you  've  heard  that  said  ?  " 

"  Time  an'  again,"  responded  Mrs.  Forder ; 
"  an'  the  worst  on  't  was  simple  old  Pappy 
Flanders  went  an'  told  the  Knowles  gals 
themselves  that  folks  thought  the  ole  Cap'n 
come  back  an'  got  it,  and  Hannah  done 
wrong  to  cuss  Enoch  Holt  an'  his  ginerations 
after  him  the  way  she  done." 

"  I  think  it  took  holt  on  her  ter'ble  after 
all  she  'd  gone  through,"  said  Mrs.  Downs, 
compassionately.  "  He  ain't  near  so  simple 
as  he  is  ugly,  Pappy  Flanders  ain't.  I  've 


IN  DARK  NEW  ENGLAND  DAYS.      249 

seen  him  set  here  an'  read  the  paper  sober 's 
anybody  when  I  've  been  goin'  about  my 
mornin's  work  in  the  shed-room,  an'  when 
I  'd  come  in  to  look  about  he  'd  twist  it  with 
his  hands  an'  roll  his  eyes  an'  begin  to  git 
off  some  o'  his  gable.  I  think  them  wander- 
in'  cheap-wits  likes  the  fun  on  't  an'  'scapes 
stiddy  work,  an'  gits  the  rovin'  habit  so  fixed, 
it  sp'iles  'em." 

"  My  gran'ther  was  to  the  South  Seas  in 
his  young  days,"  related  Mrs.  Forder,  im 
pressively,  "  an'  he  said  cussin'  was  common 
there.  I  mean  sober  spitin'  with  a  cuss. 
He  seen  one  o'  them  black  folks  git  a  gredge 
against  another  an'  go  an'  set  down  an'  look 
stiddy  at  him  in  his  hut  an'  cuss  him.  in  his 
mind  an'  set  there  an'  watch,  watch,  until  the 
other  kind  o'  took  sick  an'  died,  all  in  a  fort 
night,  I  believe  he  said ;  't  would  make  your 
blood  run  cold  to  hear  gran'ther  describe  it, 
't  would  so.  He  never  done  nothin'  but  set 
an'  look,  an'  folks  would  give  him  somethin' 
to  eat  now  an'  then,  as  if  they  thought  't  was 
all  right,  an'  the  other  one  'd  try  to  go  an' 
come,  an'  at  last  he  hived  away  altogether 
an'  died.  I  don't  know  what  you  'd  call  it 
that  ailed  him.  There  's  suthin'  in  cussin' 
that's  bad  for  folks,  now  I  tell  ye,  Mis 
Downs." 


250      IN  DARK  NEW  ENGLAND  DAYS. 

"  Hannah's  eyes  always  makes  me  creepy 
now,"  Mrs.  Downs  confessed  uneasily. 
"  They  don't  look  pleadin'  an'  childish  same 
's  they  used  to.  Seems  to  me  as  if  she  'd 
had  the  worst  on  't." 

"  We  ain't  seen  the  end  on  't  yit,"  said 
Mrs.  Forder,  impressively.  "  I  feel  it  within 
me,  Marthy  Downs,  an'  it  's  a  terrible  thing 
to  have  happened  right  amon'st  us  in 
Christian  times.  If  we  live  long  enough 
we  're  goin'  to  have  plenty  to  talk  over  in 
our  old  age  that 's  come  o'  that  cuss.  Some 
seed  's  shy  o'  sproutin'  till  a  spring  when  the 
s'ile  's  jest  right  to  breed  it." 

"There  's  lobeely  now,"  agreed  Mrs. 
Downs,  pleased  to  descend  to  prosaic  and 
familiar  levels.  "  They  ain't  a  good  crop 
one  year  in  six,  and  then  you  find  it  in  a 
place  where  you  never  observed  none  to  grow 
afore,  like  's  not ;  ain't  it  so,  reelly  ?  "  And 
she  rose  to  clear  the  table,  pleased  with  the 
certainty  of  a  guest  that  night.  Their  con 
versation  was  not  reassuring  to  the  heart  of 
a  timid  woman,  alone  in  an  isolated  farm 
house  on  a  dark  spring  evening,  especially 
so  near  the  anniversary  of  old  Captain 
Knowles's  death. 


7^  DARK  NEW  ENGLAND  DAYS.      251 

V. 

Later  in  these  rural  lives  by  many  years 
two  aged  women  were  crossing  a  wide  field 
together,  following  a  footpath  such  as  one 
often  finds  between  widely  separated  homes 
of  the  New  England  country.  Along  these 
lightly  traced  thoroughfares,  the  children  go 
to  play,  and  lovers  to  plead,  and  older  people 
to  companion  one  another  in  work  and  pleas 
ure,  in  sickness  and  sorrow ;  generation  after 
generation  comes  and  goes  again  by  these 
country  by-ways. 

The  footpath  led  from  Mrs.  Forder's  to 
another  farmhouse  half  a  mile  beyond, 
where  there  had  been  a  wedding.  Mrs. 
Downs  was  there,  and  in  the  June  weather 
she  had  been  easily  persuaded  to  go  home 
to  tea  with  Mrs.  Forder  with  the  promise 
of  being  driven  home  later  in  the  evening. 
Mrs.  Downs's  husband  had  been  dead  three 
years,  and  her  friend's  large  family  was  scat 
tered  from  the  old  nest ;  they  were  lonely  at 
times  in  their  later  years,  these  old  friends, 
and  found  it  very  pleasant  now  to  have  a 
walk  together.  Thin  little  Mrs.  Forder, 
with  all  her  wheezing,  was  the  stronger  and 
more  active  of  the  two ;  Mrs.  Downs  had 


252      IN  DARK  NEW  ENGLAND  DAYS. 

grown  heavier  and  weaker  with  advancing 
years. 

They  paced  along  the  footpath  slowly,  Mrs. 
Downs  rolling  in  her  gait  like  a  sailor,  and 
availing  herself  of  every  pretext  to  stop  and 
look  at  herbs  in  the  pasture  ground  they 
crossed,  and  at  the  growing  grass  in  the  mow 
ing  fields.  They  discussed  the  wedding  mi 
nutely,  a,nd  then  where  the  way  grew  wider 
they  walked  side  by  side  instead  of  follow 
ing  each  other,  and  their  voices  sank  to  the 
low  tone  that  betokens  confidence. 

"  You  don't  say  that  you  really  put  faith 
in  all  them  old  stories  ?  " 

"  It  ain't  accident  altogether,  noways  you 
can  fix  it  in  your  mind,"  maintained  Mrs. 
Downs.  "  Need  n't  tell  me  that  cussin'  don't 
do  neither  good  nor  harm.  I  should  n't  want 
to  marry  amon'st  the  Holts  if  I  was  young 
ag'in!  I  r'member  when  this  young  man 
was  born  that 's  married  to-day,  an'  the  fust 
thing  his  poor  mother  wanted  to  know  was 
about  his  hands  bein'  right.  I  said  yes  they 
was,  but  las'  year  he  was  twenty  year  old  and 
come  home  from  the  frontier  with  one  o'  them 
hands  —  his  right  one  —  shot  off  in  a  fight. 
They  say  't  happened  to  sights  o'  other  fel 
lows,  an'  their  laigs  gone  too,  but  I  count 


7.V  DARK  NEW  ENGLAND  DAYS.      253 

'em  over  on  my  fingers,  them  Holts,  an'  he  's 
the  third.  May  say  that 't  was  all  an  acci 
dent  his  mother's  gittin'  throwed  out  o'  her 
waggin  comin'  home  from  ineetin',  an'  her 
wrist  not  bein'  set  good,  an'  she,  bein'  run 
down  at  the  time,  'most  lost  it  altogether, 
but  thar'  it  is,  stiffened  up  an'  no  good  to  her. 
There  was  the  second.  An'  Enoch  Holt  his- 
self  come  home  from  the  Chiny  seas,  made 
a  good  passage  an'  a  sight  o'  money  in  the 
pepper  trade,  jest 's  we  expected,  an'  goin' 
to  build  him  a  new  house,  an'  the  frame  gives 
a  kind  o'  lurch  when  they  was  raisin'  of  it 
an'  surges  over  on  to  him  an'  nips  him  under. 
4  Which  arm  ?  '  says  everybody  along  the 
road  when  they  was  comin'  an'  goin'  with  the 
doctor.  '  Right  one  —  got  to  lose  it,'  says  the 
doctor  to  'em,  an'  next  time  Enoch  Holt  got 
out  to  meetin'  he  stood  up  in  the  house  o' 
God  with  the  hymn-book  in  his  left  hand,  an' 
no  right  hand  to  turn  his  leaf  with.  He 
knowed  what  wre  was  all  a-thinkin'." 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Forder,  very  short- 
breathed  with  climbing  the  long  slope  of  the 
pasture  hill,  "  I  don't  know  but  I  'd  as  soon 
be  them  as  the  Knowles  gals.  Hannah  never 
knowed  no  peace  again  after  she  spoke  them 
words  in  the  co't-house.  They  come  back 


254      IN  DARK  NEW  ENGLAND  DAYS. 

an'  harnted  her,  an'  you  know,  Miss  Downs, 
better  'n  I  do,  being  door-neighbors  as  one 
may  say,  how  they  lived  their  lives  out  like 
wild  beasts  into  a  lair." 

"  They  used  to  go  out  some  by  night  to  git 
the  air,"  pursued  Mrs.  Downs  with  interest. 
"  I  used  to  open  the  door  an'  step  right  in, 
an'  I  used  to  take  their  yarn  an'  stuff  'long 
o'  mine  an'  sell  'em,  an'  do  for  the  poor  stray 
creatur  's  long 's  they  'd  let  me.  They  'd  be 
grateful  for  a  mess  o'  early  pease  or  potatoes 
as  ever  you  see,  an'  Peter  he  allays  favored 
'em  with  pork,  fresh  an'  salt,  when  we  slaugh 
tered.  The  old  Cap'n  kept  'em  child'n  long 
as  he  lived,  an'  then  they  was  too  old  to  I'aru 
different.  I  allays  liked  Hannah  the  best  till 
that  change  struck  her.  Betsey  she  held  out 
to  the  last  jest  about  the  same.  I  don't  know, 
now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  but  what  she  felt 
it  the  most  o'  the  two." 

"  They  'd  never  let  me 's  much  as  git  a  look 
at  'em,"  complained  Mrs.  Forder.  "  Folks 
got  awful  stories  a-goin'  one  time.  I  've  heard 
it  said,  an'  it  allays  creeped  me  cold  all  over, 
that  there  was  somethin'  come  an'  lived  with 
'em  —  a  kind  o'  black  shadder,  a  cobweb 
kind  o'  a  man-shape  that  followed  'etn  about 
the  house  an'  made  a  third  to  them;  but 


IN  DARK  NEW  ENGLAND  DAYS.      255 

they  got  hardened  to  it  theirselves,  only  they 
was  afraid  't  would  follow  if  they  went  any 
wheres  from  home.  You  don't  believe  no 
such  piece  o'  nonsense?  —  But  there,  I've 
asked  ye  times  enough  before." 

"  They  'd  got  shadders  enough,  poor  crea- 
tur's,"  said  Mrs.  Downs  with  reserve.  "  Was 
n't  no  kind  o'  need  to  make  'em  up  no  spooks, 
as  I  know  on.  Well,  here 's  these  young 
folks  a-startin' ;  I  wish  'em  well,  I  'm  sure. 
She  likes  him  with  his  one  hand  better  than 
most  gals  likes  them  as  has  a  good  sound 
pair.  They  looked  prime  happy  ;  I  hope  no 
curse  won't  f oiler  'em." 

The  friends  stopped  again  —  poor,  short- 
winded  bodies  —  on  the  crest  of  the  low  hill 
and  turned  to  look  at  the  wide  landscape,  be 
wildered  by  the  marvelous  beauty  and  the 
sudden  flood  of  golden  sunset  light  that 
poured  out  of  the  western  sky.  They  could 
not  remember  that  they  had  ever  observed 
the  wide  view  before ;  it  was  like  a  revela 
tion  or  an  outlook  towards  the  celestial  coun 
try,  the  sight  of  their  own  green  farms  and 
the  countryside  that  bounded  them.  It  was 
a  pleasant  country  indeed,  their  own  New 
England :  their  petty  thoughts  and  vain  im 
aginings  seemed  futile  and  unrelated  to  so 


256      IN  DARK  NEW  ENGLAND  DATS. 

fair  a  scene  of  things.  But  the  figure  of  a 
man  who  was  crossing  the  meadow  below 
looked  like  a  malicious  black  insect.  It  was 
an  old  man,  it  was  Enoch  Holt ;  time  had 
worn  and  bent  him  enough  to  have  satisfied 
his  bitterest  foe.  The  women  could  see  his 
empty  coat-sleeve  flutter  as  he  walked  slowly 
and  unexpectantly  in  that  glorious  evening 
light. 


THE  WHITE   ROSE   ROAD. 

BEING  a  New  Englander,  it  is  natural 
that  I  should  first  speak  about  the  weather. 
Only  the  middle  of  June,  the  green  fields, 
and  blue  sky,  and  bright  sun,  with  a  touch 
of  northern  mountain  wind  blowing  straight 
toward  the  sea,  could  make  such  a  day,  and 
that  is  all  one  can  say  about  it.  We  were 
driving  seaward  through  a  part  of  the  coun 
try  which  has  been  least  changed  in  the  last 
thirty  years,  —  among  farms  which  have 
been  won  from  swampy  lowland,  and  rocky, 
stump-buttressed  hillsides :  where  the  for 
ests  wall  in  the  fields,  and  send  their  out 
posts  year  by  year  farther  into  the  pastures. 
There  is  a  year  or  two  in  the  history  of  these 
pastures  before  they  have  arrived  at  the 
dignity  of  being  called  woodland,  and  yet 
are  too  much  shaded  and  overgrown  by 
young  trees  to  give  proper  pasturage,  when 
they  made  delightful  harbors  for  the  small 
wild  creatures .  which  yet  remain,  and  for 
wild  flowers  and  berries.  Here  you  send  an 


258  THE    WHITE  ROSE  ROAD. 

astonished  rabbit  scurrying  to  his  burrow, 
and  there  you  startle  yourself  with  a  part 
ridge,  who  seems  to  get  the  best  of  the  en 
counter.  Sometimes  you  see  a  hen  partridge 
and  her  brood  of  chickens  crossing  your  path 
with  an  air  of  comfortable  door-yard  secur 
ity.  As  you  drive  along  the  narrow,  grassy 
road,  you  see  many  charming  sights  and  de 
lightful  nooks  on  either  hand,  where  the 
young  trees  spring  out  of  a  close-cropped 
turf  that  carpets  the  ground  like  velvet. 
Toward  the  east  and  the  quaint  fishing  vil 
lage  of  Ogunquit,  I  find  the  most  delightful 
woodland  roads.  There  is  little  left  of  the 
large  timber  which  once  filled  the  region, 
but  much  young  growth,  and  there  are  hun 
dreds  of  acres  of  cleared  land  and  pasture- 
ground  where  the  forests  are  springing  fast 
and  covering  the  country  once  more,  as  if 
they  had  no  idea  of  losing  in  their  war  with 
civilization  and  the  intruding  white  settler. 
The  pine  woods  and  the  Indians  seem  to  be 
next  of  kin,  and  the  former  owners  of  this 
corner  of  New  England  are  the  only  proper 
figures  to  paint  into  such  landscapes.  The 
twilight  under  tall  pines  seems  to  be  unten- 
anted  and  to  lack  something,  at  first  sight, 
as  if  one  opened  the  door  of  an  empty  house. 


THE    WHITE  ROSE  ROAD.  259 

A  farmer  passing  through  with  his  axe  is 
but  an  intruder,  and  children  straying  home 
from  school  give  one  a  feeling  of  solicitude 
at  their  unprotectedness.  The  pine  woods 
are  the  red  man's  house,  and  it  may  be  haz 
ardous  even  yet  for  the  gray  farmhouses  to 
stand  so  near  the  eaves  of  the  forest.  I 
have  noticed  a  distrust  of  the  deep  woods, 
among  elderly  people,  which  was  something 
more  than  a  fear  of  losing  their  way.  It 
was  a  feeling  of  defenselessness  against  some 
unrecognized  but  malicious  influence. 

Driving  through  the  long  woodland  way, 
shaded  and  chilly  when  you  are  out  of  the 
sun ;  across  the  Great  Works  River  and  its 
pretty  elm-grown  intervale  ;  across  the  short 
bridges  of  brown  brooks  ;  delayed  now  and 
then  by  the  sight  of  ripe  strawberries  in 
sunny  spots  by  the  roadside,  one  comes  to  a 
higher  open  country,  where  farm  joins  farm, 
and  the  cleared  fields  lie  all  along  the  high 
way,  while  the  woods  are  pushed  back  a 
good  distance  on  either  hand.  The  wooded 
hills,  bleak  here  and  there  with  granite 
ledges,  rise  beyond.  The  houses  are  beside 
the  road,  with  green  door-yards  and  large 
barns,  almost  empty  now,  and  with  wide 
doors  standing  open,  as  if  they  were  already 


260  THE    WHITE  ROSE  ROAD. 

expecting  the  hay  crop  to  be  brought  in. 
The  tall  green  grass  is  waving  in  the  fields 
as  the  wind  goes  over,  and  there  is  a  fra 
grance  of  whiteweed  and  ripe  strawberries 
and  clover  blowing  through  the  sunshiny 
barns,  with  their  lean  sides  and  their  fes 
toons  of  brown,  dusty  cobwebs  ;  dull,  com 
fortable  creatures  they  appear  to  imagina 
tive  eyes,  waiting  hungrily  for  their  yearly 
meal.  The  eave-s wallows  are  teasing  their 
sleepy  shapes,  like  the  birds  which  flit  about 
great  beasts  ;  gay,  movable,  irreverent,  al 
most  derisive,  those  barn  swallows  fly  to 
and  fro  in  the  still,  clear  air. 

The  noise  of  our  wheels  brings  fewer  faces 
to  the  windows  than  usual,  and  we  lose  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  some  of  our  friends  who 
are  apt  to  be  looking  out,  and  to  whom  we 
like  to  say  good-day.  Some  funeral  must 
be  taking  place,  or  perhaps  the  women  may 
have  gone  out  into  the  fields.  It  is  hoeing- 
time  and  strawberry-time,  and  already  we 
have  seen  some  of  the  younger  women  at 
work  among  the  corn  and  potatoes.  One 
sight  will  be  charming  to  remember.  On  a 
green  hillside  sloping  to  the  west,  near  one 
of  the  houses,  a  thin  little  girl  was  working 
away  lustily  with  a  big  hoe  on  a  patch  of 


THE  WHITE  ROSE  ROAD.      261 

land  perhaps  fifty  feet  by  twenty.  There 
were  all  sorts  of  things  growing  there,  as  if 
a  child's  fancy  had  made  the  choice,  — 
straight  rows  of  turnips  and  carrots  and 
beets,  a  little  of  everything,  one  might  say  ; 
but  the  only  touch  of  color  was  from  a  long 
border  of  useful  sage  in  full  bloom  of  dull 
blue,  on  the  upper  side.  I  am  sure  this  was 
called  iCaty's  or  Becky's  piece  by  the  elder 
members  of  the  family.  One  can  imagine 
how  the  young  creature  had  planned  it  in 
the  spring,  and  persuaded  the  men  to  plough 
and  harrow  it,  and  since  then  had  stoutly 
done  all  the  work  herself,  and  meant  to  send 
the  harvest  of  the  piece  to  market,  and  pocket 
her  honest  gains,  as  they  came  in,  for  some 
great  end.  She  was  as  thin  as  a  grasshopper, 
this  busy  little  gardener,  and  hardly  turned 
to  give  us  a  glance,  as  we  drove  slowly  up 
the  hill  close  by.  The  sun  will  brown  and 
dry  her  like  a  spear  of  grass  on  that  hot 
slope,  but  a  spark  of  fine  spirit  is  in  the 
small  body,  and  I  wish  her  a  famous  crop. 
I  hate  to  say  that  the  piece  looked  backward, 
all  except  the  sage,  and  that  it  was  a  heavy 
bit  of  land  for  the  clumsy  hoe  to  pick  at. 
The  only  puzzle  is,  what  she  proposes  to  do 
with  so  long  a  row  of  sage.  Yet  there  may 


262  THE    WHITE  ROSE  ROAD. 

be  a  large  family  with  a  downfall  of  measles 
yet  ahead,  and  she  does  not  mean  to  be 
caught  without  sage-tea. 

Along  this  road  every  one  of  the  old  farm 
houses  has  at  least  one  tall  bush  of  white 
roses  by  the  door,  —  a  most  lovely  sight, 
with  buds  and  blossoms,  and  unvexed  green 
leaves.  I  wish  that  I  knew  the  history  of 
them,  and  whence  the  first  bush  was  brought. 
Perhaps  from  England  itself,  like  a  red  rose 
that  I  know  in  Kittery,  and  the  new  shoots 
from  the  root  were  given  to  one  neighbor 
after  another  all  through  the  district.  The 
bushes  are  slender,  but  they  grow  tall  with 
out  climbing  against  the  wall,  and  sway  to 
and  fro  in  the  wind  with  a  grace  of  youth 
and  an  inexpressible  charm  of  beauty.  How 
many  lovers  must  have  picked  them  on  Sun 
day  evenings,  in  all  the  bygone  years,  and 
carried  them  along  the  roads  or  by  the  pas 
ture  footpaths,  hiding  them  clumsily  under 
their  Sunday  coats  if  they  caught  sight  of 
any  one  coming.  Here,  too,  where  the  sea 
wind  nips  many  a  young  life  before  its  prime, 
how  often  the  white  roses  have  been  put  into 
paler  hands,  and  withered  there  ! 

In  spite  of  the  serene  and  placid  look  of 
the  old  houses,  one  who  has  always  known 


THE    WHITE  ROSE  ROAD.  263 

them  cannot  help  thinking  of  the  sorrows  of 
these  farms  and  their  almost  undiverted  toil. 
Near  the  little  gardener's  plot,  we  turned 
from  the  main  road  and  drove  through  lately 
cleared  woodland  up  to  an  old  farmhouse, 
high  on  a  ledgy  hill,  whence  there  is  a  fine 
view  of  the  country  seaward  and  mountain- 
ward.  There  were  few  of  the  once  large 
household  left  there  :  only  the  old  farmer, 
who  was  crippled  by  war  wounds,  active, 
cheerful  man  that  he  was  once,  and  two 
young  orphan  children.  There  has  been 
much  hard  work  spent  on  the  place.  Every 
generation  has  toiled  from  youth  to  age 
without  being  able  to  make  much  beyond  a 
living.  The  dollars  that  can  be  saved  are 
but  few,  and  sickness  and  death  have  often 
brought  their  bitter  cost.  The  mistress  of 
the  farm  was  helpless  for  many  years ; 
through  all  the  summers  and  winters  she  sat 
in  her  pillowed  rocking-chair  in  the  plain 
room.  She  could  watch  the  seldom- visited 
lane,  and  beyond  it,  a  little  way  across  the 
fields,  were  the  woods  ;  besides  these,  only 
the  clouds  in  the  sky.  She  could  not  lift 
her  food  to  her  mouth ;  she  could  not  be  her 
husband's  working  partner.  She  never  went 
into  another  woman's  house  to  see  her  works 


264  THE    WHITE  ROSE  ROAD. 

and  ways,  but  sat  there,  aching  and  tired, 
vexed  by  flies  and  by  heat,  and  isolated  in 
long  storms.  Yet  the  whole  countryside 
neighbored  her  with  true  affection.  Her 
spirit  grew  stronger  as  her  body  grew  weaker, 
and  the  doctors,  who  grieved  because  they 
could  do  so  little  with  their  skill,  were  never 
confronted  by  that  malady  of  the  spirit,  a 
desire  for  ease  and  laziness,  which  makes  the 
soundest  of  bodies  useless  and  complaining. 
The  thought  of  her  blooms  in  one's  mind 
like  the  whitest  of  flowers ;  it  makes  one 
braver  and  more  thankful  to  remember  the 
simple  faith  and  patience  with  which  she 
bore  her  pain  and  trouble.  How  often  she 
must  have  said,  "  I  wish  I  could  do  some 
thing  for  you  in  return,"  when  she  was  do 
ing  a  thousand  times  more  than  if,  like  her 
neighbors,  she  followed  the  simple  round  of 
daily  life  I  She  was  doing  constant  kindness 
by  her  example  ;  but  nobody  can  tell  the 
woe  of  her  long  days  and  nights,  the  solitude 
of  her  spirit,  as  she  was  being  lifted  by  such 
hard  ways  to  the  knowledge  of  higher  truth 
and  experience.  Think  of  her  pain  when, 
one  after  another,  her  children  fell  ill  and 
died,  and  she  could  not  tend  them !  And 
now,  in  the  same  worn  chair  where  she  lived 


THE    WHITE  ROSE  ROAD.  265 

and  slept  sat  her  husband,  helpless  too, 
thinking  of  her,  and  missing  her  more  than 
if  she  had  been  sometimes  away  from  home, 
like  other  women.  Even  a  stranger  would 
miss  her  in  the  house. 

There  sat  the  old  farmer  looking  down  the 
lane  in  his  turn,  bearing  his  afflictions  with 
a  patient  sterness  that  may  have  been  born 
of  watching  his  wife's  serenity.  There  was 
a  half-withered  rose  lying  within  his  reach. 
Some  days  nobody  came  up  the  lane,  and  the 
wild  birds  that  ventured  near  the  house  and 
the  clouds  that  blew  over  were  his  only  en 
tertainment.  He  had  a  fine  face,  of  the 
older  New  England  type,  clean-shaven  and 
strong-featured,  —  a  type  that  is  fast  pass 
ing  away.  He  might  have  been  a  Cum 
berland  dalesman,  such  were  his  dignity, 
and  self-possession,  and  English  soberness 
of  manner.  His  large  frame  was  built  for 
hard  work,  for  lifting  great  weights  and 
pushing  his  plough  through  new-cleared 
land.  We  felt  at  home  together,  and  each 
knew  many  things  that  the  other  did  of  ear 
lier  days,  and  of  losses  that  had  come  with 
time.  I  remembered  coming  to  the  old 
house  often  in  my  childhood  ;  it  was  in  this 
very  farm  lane  that  I  first  saw  anemones, 


266  THE    WHITE  ROSE  ROAD. 

and  learned  what  to  call  them.  After  we 
drove  away,  this  crippled  man  must  have 
thought  a  long  time  about  my  elders  and  bet 
ters,  as  if  he  were  reading  their  story  out  of 
a  book.  I  suppose  he  has  hauled  many  a 
stick  of  timber  pine  down  for  ship-yards, 
and  gone  through  the  village  so  early  in  the 
winter  morning  that  I,  waking  in  my  warm 
bed,  only  heard  the  sleds  creak  through  the 
frozen  snow  as  the  slow  oxen  plodded  by. 

Near  the  house  a  trout  brook  conies 
plashing  over  the  ledges.  At  one  place 
there  is  a  most  exquisite  waterfall,  to  which 
neither  painter's  brush  nor  writer's  pen  can 
do  justice.  The  sunlight  falls  through  flick 
ering  leaves  into  the  deep  glen,  and  makes 
the  foam  whiter  and  the  brook  more  golden- 
brown.  You  can  hear  the  merry  noise  of  it 
all  night,  all  day,  in  the  house.  A  little  way 
above  the  farmstead  it  comes  through  marshy 
ground,  which  I  fear  has  been  the  cause  of 
much  illness  and  sorrow  to  the  poor,  troubled 
family.  I  had  a  thrill  of  pain,  as  it  seemed 
to  me  that  the  brook  was  mocking  at  all 
that  trouble  with  all  its  wild  carelessness 
and  loud  laughter,  as  it  hurried  away  down 
the  glen. 

When  we  had  said  good-by  and  were  turn- 


THE    WHITE  ROSE  ROAD.  267 

ing  the  horses  away,  there  suddenly  appeared 
in  a  footpath  that  led  down  from  one  of  the 
green  hills  the  young  grandchild,  just  coming 
home  from  school.  She  was  as  quick  as  a 
bird,  and  as  shy  in  her  little  pink  gown,  and 
balanced  herself  on  one  foot,  like  a  flower. 
The  brother  was  the  elder  of  the  two  or 
phans  ;  he  was  the  old  man's  delight  and 
dependence  by  day,  while  his  hired  man  was 
afield.  The  sober  country  boy  had  learned 
to  wait  and  tend,  and  the  young  people  were 
indeed  a  joy  in  that  lonely  household. 
There  was  no  sign  that  they  ever  played 
like  other  children,  —  no  truckle-cart  in  the 
yard,  no  doll,  no  bits  of  broken  crockery  in 
order  on  a  rock.  They  had  learned  a  fash 
ion  of  life  from  their  elders,  and  already 
could  lift  and  carry  their  share  of  the  bur 
dens  of  life. 

It  was  a  country  of  wild  flowers  ;  the  last 
of  the  columbines  were  clinging  to  the  hill 
sides  ;  down  in  the  small,  fenced  meadows 
belonging  to  the  farm  were  meadow  rue  just 
coming  in  flower,  and  red  and  white  clover ; 
the  golden  buttercups  were  thicker  than  the 
grass,  while  many  mulleins  were  standing 
straight  and  slender  among  the  pine  stumps, 
with  their  first  blossoms  atop.  Rudbeckias 


268  THE    WHITE  ROSE  ROAD. 

had  found  their  way  in,  and  appeared  more 
than  ever  like  bold  foreigners.  Their  names 
should  be  translated  into  country  speech,  and 
the  children  ought  to  call  them  "rude- 
beckies,"  by  way  of  relating  them  to  boun 
cing-bets  and  sweet-williams.  The  pasture 
grass  was  green  and  thick  after  the  plenti 
ful  rains,  and  the  busy  cattle  took  little  no 
tice  of  us  as  they  browsed  steadily  and 
tinkled  their  pleasant  bells.  Looking  off, 
the  smooth,  round  back  of  Great  Hill  caught 
the  sunlight  with  its  fields  of  young  grain, 
and  all  the  long,  wooded  slopes  and  valleys 
were  fresh  and  fair  in  the  June  weather, 
away  toward  the  blue  New  Hampshire  hills 
on  the  northern  horizon.  Seaward  stood 
Agamenticus,  dark  with  its  pitch  pines,  and 
the  far  sea  itself,  blue  and  calm,  ruled  the 
uneven  country  with  its  unchangeable  line. 

Out  on  the  white  rose  road  again,  we  saw 
more  of  the  rose-trees  than  ever,  and  now 
and  then  a  carefully  tended  flower  garden, 
always  delightful  to  see  and  think  about. 
These  are  not  made  by  merely  looking 
through  a  florist's  catalogue,  and  ordering 
this  or  that  new  seedling  and  a  proper  selec 
tion  of  bulbs  or  shrubs  ;  everything  in  a 
country  garden  has  its  history  and  personal 


THE    WHITE  ROSE  ROAD.  269 

association.  The  old  bushes,  the  perennials, 
are  apt  to  have  most  tender  relationship 
with  the  hands  that  planted  them  long  ago. 
There  is  a  constant  exchange  of  such  trea 
sures  between  the  neighbors,  and  in  the 
spring,  slips  and  cuttings  may  be  seen  root 
ing  on  the  window  ledges,  while  the  house 
plants  give  endless  work  all  winter  long, 
since  they  need  careful  protection  against 
frost  in  long  nights  of  the  severe  weather. 
A  flower-loving  woman  brings  back  from 
every  one  of  her  infrequent  journeys  some 
treasure  of  flower-seeds  or  a  huge  miscella 
neous  nosegay.  Time  to  work  in  the  little 
plot  of  pleasure-ground  is  hardly  won  by  the 
busy  mistress  of  the  farmhouse.  The  most 
appealing  collection  of  flowering  plants  and 
vines  that  I  ever  saw  was  in  Virginia,  once, 
above  the  exquisite  valley  spanned  by  the 
Natural  Bridge,  a  valley  far  too  little  known 
or  praised.  I  had  noticed  an  old  log  house, 
as  I  learned  to  know  the  outlook  from  the 
picturesque  hotel,  and  was  sure  that  it  must 
give  a  charming  view  from  its  perch  on  the 
summit  of  a  hill. 

One  day  I  went  there,  —  one  April  day, 
when  the  whole  landscape  was  full  of  color 
from  the  budding  trees,  —  and  before  I 


270  THE    WHITE  ROSE  ROAD. 

could  look  at  the  view,  I  caught  sight  of 
some  rare  vines,  already  in  leaf,  about  the 
dilapidated  walls  of  the  cabin.  Then  across 
the  low  paling  I  saw  the  brilliant  colors  of 
tulips  and  daffodils.  There  were  many  rose 
bushes  ;  in  fact,  the  whole  top  of  the  hill 
was  a  flower  garden,  once  well  cared  for  and 
carefully  ordered.  It  was  all  the  work  of  an 
old  woman  of  Scotch-Irish  descent,  who  had 
been  busy  with  the  cares  of  life,  and  a  very 
hard  worker  ;  yet  I  was  told  that  to  gratify 
her  love  for  flowers  she  would  often  go  afoot 
many  miles  over  those  rough  Virginia  roads, 
with  a  root  or  cutting  from  her  own  garden, 
to  barter  for  a  new  rose  or  a  brighter  blos 
som  of  some  sort,  with  which  she  would  re 
turn  in  triumph.  I  fancied  that  sometimes 
she  had  to  go  by  night  on  these  charming 
quests.  I  could  see  her  business-like,  small 
figure  setting  forth  down  the  steep  path, 
when  she  had  a  good  conscience  toward  her 
housekeeping  and  the  children  were  in  order 
to  be  left.  I  am  sure  that  her  friends  thought 
of  her  when  they  were  away  from  home  and 
could  bring  her  an  offering  of  something 
rare.  Alas,  she  had  grown  too  old  and  fee 
ble  to  care  for  her  dear  blossoms  any  longer, 
and  had  been  forced  to  go  to  live  with  a 


THE   WHITE  ROSE  ROAD.  271 

married  son.  I  dare  say  that  she  was  think 
ing  of  her  garden  that  very  day,  and  wonder 
ing  if  this  plant  or  that  were  not  in  bloom, 
and  perhaps  had  a  heartache  at  the  thought 
that  her  tenants,  the  careless  colored  children, 
might  tread  the  young  shoots  of  peony  and 
rose,  and  make  havoc  in  the  herb-bed.  It 
was  an  uncommon  collection,  made  by  years 
of  patient  toil  and  self-sacrifice. 

I  thought  of  that  deserted  Southern  gar 
den  as  I  followed  my  own  New  England 
road.  The  flower-plots  were  in  gay  bloom 
all  along  the  way  ;  almost  every  house  had 
some  flowers  before  it,  sometimes  carefully 
fenced  about  by  stakes  and  barrel  staves 
from  the  miscreant  hens  and  chickens  which 
lurked  everywhere,  and  liked  a  good  scratch 
and  fluffing  in  soft  earth  this  year  as  well  as 
any  other.  The  world  seemed  full  of  young 
life.  There  were  calves  tethered  in  pleasant 
shady  spots,  and  puppies  and  kittens  ad 
venturing  from  the  door-ways.  The  trees 
were  full  of  birds  :  bobolinks,  and  cat-birds, 
and  yellow-hammers,  and  golden  robins,  and 
sometimes  a  thrush,  for  the  afternoon  was 
wearing  late.  We  passed  the  spring  which 
once  marked  the  boundary  where  three 
towns  met,  —  Berwick,  York,  and  Wells,  — 


272  THE    WHITE  ROSE  ROAD. 

a  famous  spot  in  the  early  settlement  of  the 
country,  but  many  of  its  old  traditions  are 
now  forgotten.  One  of  the  omnipresent 
regicides  of  Charles  the  First  is  believed  to 
have  hidden  himself  for  a  long  time  under 
a  great  rock  close  by.  The  story  runs  that 
he  made  his  miserable  home  in  this  den  for 
several  years,  but  I  believe  that  there  is  no 
record  that  more  than  three  of  the  regicides 
escaped  to  this  country,  and  their  wander 
ings  are  otherwise  accounted  for.  There  is 
a  firm  belief  that  one  of  them  came  to  York, 
and  was  the  ancestor  of  many  persons  now 
living  there,  but  I  do  not  know  whether  he 
can  have  been  the  hero  of  the  Baker's  Spring 
hermitage  beside.  We  stopped  to  drink 
some  of  the  delicious  water,  which  never 
fails  to  flow  cold  and  clear  under  the  shade 
of  a  great  oak,  and  were  amused  with  the 
sight  of  a  flock  of  gay  little  country  children 
who  passed  by  in  deep  conversation.  What 
could  such  atoms  of  humanity  be  talking 
about  ?  "  Old  times,"  said  John,  the  master 
of  horse,  with  instant  decision. 

We  met  now  and  then  a  man  or  woman, 
who  stopped  to  give  us  hospitable  greeting  ; 
but  there  was  no  staying  for  visits,  lest  the 
daylight  might  fail  us.  It  was  delightful  to 


THE    WHITE  ROSE  ROAD.  273 

find  this  old-established  neighborhood  so 
thriving  and  populous,  for  a  few  days  before 
I  had  driven  over  three  miles  of  road,  and 
passed  only  one  house  that  was  tenanted, 
and  six  cellars  or  crumbling  chimneys  where 
good  farmhouses  had  been,  the  lilacs  bloom 
ing  in  solitude,  and  the  fields,  cleared  with 
so  much  difficulty  a  century  or  two  ago,  all 
going  back  to  the  original  woodland  from 
which  they  were  won.  What  would  the  old 
farmers  say  to  see  the  fate  of  their  worthy 
bequest  to  the  younger  generation  ?  They 
would  wag  their  heads  sorrowfully,  with  sad 
foreboding. 

After  we  had  passed  more  woodland  and 
a  well-known  quarry,  where,  for  a  wonder, 
the  derrick  was  not  creaking  and  not  a  sin 
gle  hammer  was  clinking  at  the  stone  wedges, 
we  did  not  see  any  one  hoeing  in  the  fields, 
as  we  had  seen  so  many  on  the  white  rose 
road,  the  other  side  of  the  hills.  Presently 
we  met  two  or  three  people  walking  sedately, 
clad  in  their  best  clothes.  There  was  a  sub 
dued  air  of  public  excitement  and  concern, 
and  one  of  us  remembered  that  there  had 
been  a  death  in  the  neighborhood;  this  was 
the  day  of  the  funeral.  The  man  had  been 
known  to  us  in  former  years.  We  had  an 


274  THE   WHITE  ROSE  ROAD. 

instinct  to  hide  our  unsympathetic  pleasur 
ing,  but  there  was  nothing  to  be  done  except 
to  follow  our  homeward  road  straight  by  the 
house. 

The  occasion  was  nearly  ended  by  this 
time:  the  borrowed  chairs  were  being  set 
out  in  the  yard  in  little  groups ;  even  the 
funeral  supper  had  been  eaten,  and  the 
brothers  and  sisters  and  near  relatives  of  the 
departed  man  were  just  going  home.  The 
new  grave  showed  plainly  out  in  the  green 
field  near  by.  He  had  belonged  to  one  of 
the  ancient  families  of  the  region,  long  set 
tled  on  this  old  farm  by  the  narrow  river  ; 
they  had  given  their  name  to  a  bridge,  and 
the  bridge  had  christened  the  meeting-house 
which  stood  close  by.  We  were  much  struck 
by  the  solemn  figure  of  the  mother,  a  very 
old  woman,  as  she  walked  toward  her  old 
home  with  some  of  her  remaining  children. 
I  had  not  thought  to  see  her  again,  knowing 
her  great  age  and  infirmity.  She  was  like  a 
presence  out  of  the  last  century,  tall  and  still 
erect,  dark-eyed  and  of  striking  features, 
and  a  firm  look  not  modern,  but  as  if  her 
mind  were  still  set  upon  an  earlier  and  sim 
pler  scheme  of  life.  An  air  of  dominion 
cloaked  her  finely.  She  had  long  been 


THE    WHITE  ROSE  ROAD.  275 

queen  of  her  surroundings  and  law-giver  to 
her  great  family.  Royalty  is  a  quality,  one 
of  Nature's  gifts,  and  there  one  might  behold 
it  as  truly  as  if  Victoria  Regina  Imperatrix 
had  passed  by.  The  natural  instincts  com 
mon  to  humanity  were  there  undisguised, 
unconcealed,  simply  accepted.  We  had  seen 
a  royal  progress ;  she  was  the  central  figure 
of  that  rural  society  ;  as  you  looked  at  the 
little  group,  you  could  see  her  only.  Now 
that  she  came  abroad  so  rarely,  her  presence 
was  not  without  deep  significance,  and  so  she 
took  her  homeward  way  with  a  primitive 
kind  of  majesty. 

It  was  evident  that  the  neighborhood  was 
in  great  excitement  and  quite  thrown  out  of 
its  usual  placidity.  An  acquaintance  came 
from  a  small  house  farther  down  the  road, 
and  we  stopped  for  a  word  with  him.  We 
spoke  of  the  funeral,  and  were  told  something 
of  the  man  who  had  died.  "Yes,  and 
there  's  a  man  layin'  very  sick  here,"  said 
our  friend  in  an  excited  whisper.  "He 
won't  last  but  a  day  or  two.  There  's  an 
other  man  buried  yesterday  that  was  struck 
by  lightnin',  comin'  acrost  a  field  when  that 
great  shower  begun.  The  lightnin'  stove 
through  his  hat  and  run  down  all  over  him, 


276  THE    WHITE  ROSE  ROAD. 

and  ploughed  a  spot  in  the  ground."  There 
was  a  knot  of  people  about  the  door;  the 
minister  of  that  scattered  parish  stood  among 
them,  and  they  all  looked  at  us  eagerly,  as 
if  we  too  might  be  carrying  news  of  a  fresh 
disaster  through  the  countryside. 

Somehow  the  melancholy  tales  did  not 
touch  our  sympathies  as  they  ought,  and  we 
could  not  see  the  pathetic  side  of  them  as  at 
another  time,  the  day  was  so  full  of  cheer 
and  the  sky  and  earth  so  glorious.  The 
very  fields  looked  busy  with  their  early  sum 
mer  growth,  the  horses  began  to  think  of 
the  clack  of  the  oat-bin  cover,  and  we  were 
hurried  along  between  the  silvery  willows 
and  the  rustling  alders,  taking  time  to  gather 
a  handful  of  stray-away  conserve  roses  by 
the  roadside  ;  and  where  the  highway  made 
a  long  bend  eastward  among  the  farms,  two 
of  us  left  the  carriage,  and  followed  a  foot 
path  along  the  green  river  bank  and  through 
the  pastures,  coming  out  to  the  road  again 
only  a  minute  later  than  the  horses.  I  be 
lieve  that  it  is  an  old  Indian  trail  followed 
from  the  salmon  falls  farther  down  the  river, 
where  the  up-country  Indians  came  to  dry 
the  plentiful  fish  for  their  winter  supplies. 
I  have  traced  the  greater  part  of  this  deep- 


THE    WHITE  ROSE  ROAD.  277 

worn  footpath,  which  goes  straight  as  an 
arrow  across  the  country,  the  first  day's  trail 
being  from  the  falls  (where  Mason's  settlers 
came  in  1627,  and  built  their  Great  Works 
of  a  saw-mill  with  a  gang  of  saws,  and  pres 
ently  a  grist  mill  beside)  to  Emery's  Bridge. 
I  should  like  to  follow  the  old  footpath  still 
farther.  I  found  part  of  it  by  accident  a 
long  time  ago.  Once,  as  you  came  close  to 
the  river,  you  were  sure  to  find  fishermen 
scattered  along,  —  sometimes  I  myself  have 
been  discovered ;  but  it  is  not  much  use  to 
go  fishing  any  more.  If  some  public-spirited 
person  would  kindly  be  the  Frank  Buckland 
of  New  England,  and  try  to  have  the  laws 
enforced  that  protect  the  inland  fisheries,  he 
would  do  his  country  great  service.  Years 
ago,  there  were  so  many  salmon  that,  as  an  en 
thusiastic  old  friend  once  assured  me,  "  you 
could  walk  across  on  them  below  the  falls ;  " 
but  now  they  are  unknown,  simply  because 
certain  substances  which  would  enrich  the 
farms  are  thrown  from  factories  and  tan 
neries  into  our  clear  New  England  streams. 
Good  river  fish  are  growing  very  scarce. 
The  smelts,  and  bass,  and  shad  have  all  left 
this  upper  branch  of  the  Piscataqua,  as  the 
salmon  left  it  long  ago,  and  the  supply  of 


278  THE    WHITE  ROSE  ROAD. 

one  necessary  sort  of  good  cheap  food  is  lost 
to  a  growing  community,  for  the  lack  of  a 
little  thought  and  care  in  the  factory  compa 
nies  and  saw-mills,  and  the  building  in  some 
cases  of  fish-ways  over  the  dams.  I  think 
that  the  need  of  preaching  against  this  bad 
economy  is  very  great.  The  sight  of  a  proud 
lad  with  a  string  of  undersized  trout  will 
scatter  half  the  idlers  in  town  into  the  pas 
tures  next  day,  but  everybody  patiently  ac 
cepts  the  depopidation  of  a  fine  clear  river, 
where  the  tide  comes  fresh  from  the  sea 
to  be  tainted  by  the  spoiled  stream,  which 
started  from  its  mountain  sources  as  pure  as 
heart  could  wish.  Man  has  done  his  best 
to  ruin  the  world  he  lives  in,  one  is  tempted 
to  say  at  impulsive  first  thought ;  but  after 
all,  as  I  mounted  the  last  hill  before  reach 
ing  the  village,  the  houses  took  on  a  new 
look  of  comfort  and  pleasantness ;  the  fields 
that  I  knew  so  well  were  a  fresher  green 
than  before,  the  sun  was  down,  and  the  pro 
vocations  of  the  day  seemed  very  slight  com 
pared  to  the  satisfaction.  I  believed  that 
with  a  little  more  time  we  should  grow  wiser 
about  our  fish  and  other  things  beside. 

It  will  be  good  to  remember  the  white 
rose  road  and  its  quietness  in  many  a  busy 


THE    WHITE  ROSE  ROAD.  279 

town  day  to  come.  As  I  think  of  these 
slight  sketches,  I  wonder  if  they  will  have 
to  others  a  tinge  of  sadness  ;  but  I  have  sel 
dom  spent  an  afternoon  so  full  of  pleasure 
and  fresh  and  delighted  consciousness  of  the 
possibilities  of  rural  life. 


FOURTEEN  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 


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15May'56NW 

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(B139s22)476 


Gen.eral      brary 


RFRKELEY 


